


milkteeth

by tkillamockingbird (Theboys)



Series: milkteeth [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-04-05 03:16:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 84,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19040047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/tkillamockingbird
Summary: Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, reaches Horn Hill with an empty flagon of water and a mostly-dead babe.





	1. Chapter 1

 

Arthur

283 AC

He carries the squalling babe through the Red Mountains.

The child is born at the height of summer, wrapped in a blanket as blue as the winter rose that killed his mother.

The child cries for the first night, as he can find no shelter for it. He wraps the babe in his cloak and thanks the Seven that he’s not been called to keep the child alive past Winterfell.

The next morning brings silence.

Dawn hangs awkwardly from his hip, not meant to be handled while he holds a suckling newborn. Black curls soil across his scalp, thicker than even Allyria’s when she was birthed.

He pushes his own dark hair away from his eyes and slips a calloused thumb into the babe’s palm. The child’s fingers curl weakly ‘round the digit and Arthur understands that if this babe is to die, he will never know peace.

It’s a day’s journey through the Prince’s Pass to the closest keep.

Horn Hill sits at the southron edge of the Reach and he’ll need to procure a wet nurse for the trip to King’s Landing.

The sun is high overhead and Arthur fears his cloak is too restrictive.

He gently shakes the babe’s hand from where it has listlessly released his finger.

-

Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, reaches Horn Hill with an empty flagon of water and a mostly-dead babe.

Ser Randyll Tarly is en route to the riverlands and so it is his wife, Melessa, who greets them, round with child in a way that sickens him to his core.

He’s had enough of babes.

Her fingers flutter uncertainly around her condition and Arthur averts his gaze.

“He is dying.”

He has not spoken except to sing the child to sleep and then later, to sing it to consciousness, his voice a faultline, the shorn version of his sister’s.

Melessa is quick; she summons a wet nurse, probably kept available for her impending birth.

When Arthur reaches forward to release the babe for the first time in two days, the child opens his eyes.

-

 

Jon

296 AC

The Sword of the Morning knocks him down once every dawn before reporting for his duties as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

Jon comes out early to train before the heat of the day brings Rhaenys and Aegon down to the courtyard, drawn by the sun.

“It’s in their blood,” Ser Arthur comments, answering thoughts Jon has not yet voiced.

His hair is long and thick, dark and curly against his head.

Aegon looks like father, with the silver hair of the Targaryens and the wicked purple eyes. Jon’s are grey in his face, striking from a distance.

Like Winter, his father tells him, but only when he is deep in his cups and has called Jon to his chambers so that Jon might rub at his bad knee.

The only thing he shares with Aegon and Father is height, all well over six feet.

“Winter will come before you’ve made a passable swordsman,” Ser Arthur says, and Jon parries lightly, hefting the sword into his non-dominant hand.

“Behind your back, Your Grace.”

Jon feints left and grimaces. He does as he’s told.

“If it’ll take til Winter to teach me,” Jon says, grunting as Ser Arthur hits him with the flat of Dawn, “Then I’ll range beyond the wall and learn from the wildlings.”

Ser Arthur is not prone to displays of emotion but Jon likes to think he can force him into laughter before the sun rises over the horizon.

“I’ve killed you six times this morn, Your Grace.”

Jon scoffs, the clang of his weapon against the milkglass of Dawn discordant.

“Aegon has twice as many deaths within the same frame,” Jon says petulantly. He stands taller when Ser Arthur sheaths Dawn with finality.

“That’s enough, Your Grace.”

“I wasn’t besmirching his honor. It isn’t a falsehood if you do not disagree.”

Ser Arthur does not answer, his dark purple eyes placid in his face.

“He’s said worse of me!”

Ser Arthur inclines his head, sweeping up the scaled white cloak that marks him as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

“You are not Prince Aegon, Your Grace,” Ser Arthur says, clipping cloak to breastplate.

The tip of Jon’s sword bites the dust even as Jon hears Aegon calling for him, his elder by a year.

That is the problem.

-

Sansa

296 AC

“I’ll not have it!”

The mug clatters, hitting somewhere opposite of the fireplace in the Great Hall.

Sansa jumps as Arya laughs at her, with her grubby hands and Stark-grey eyes.

“Cat,” her father tries, his voice slightly raised.

Arya’s wicked face gleams with delight.

“I wonder if Mother will throw a plate at father’s head next,” she whispers and Sansa tucks her flyaway hair behind an ear.

“You’re a wretched little thing, aren’t you,” Sansa says without heat. Arya nudges Sansa’s arm with her forehead.

“And you get to be the Rose of Winterfell,” Arya teases, even as Sansa’s cheeks darken to claret.

“Silence, creature,” Sansa says, wrapping one arm around Arya’s small frame to momentarily still her movements.

They’ll have to run quickly ‘round the corner when Mother and Father finish arguing or else they’ll take Sansa’s needlework and force Arya to wear her best dress for the rest of the day.

“I’ll not send my babe South, Ned. I will not have it. You can ride your blasted horse directly into the Red Keep and tell the bastard himself.”

Arya has gone silent, dirty palms clapped over her mouth.

Sansa pries at them absently, rubbing their dirt against the underside of her skirts. Arya will catch ill and then who will have to help nurse her back to health?

“You were always going to lose them,” Father says, so softly that Sansa risks it and ducks half her face from behind the tapestries that line the outer walls.

Arya squeals quietly and makes to tug her backward, but Sansa is yet stronger than her little sister, if not as quick.

“She will not go alone,” Mother says, and Father makes an indefinable sound.

“Sansa,” Arya hisses, “by the Gods, cover your hair!”

-

Jon

301 AC

Aegon’s betrothed comes to the Red Keep in the eleventh day of the ninth moon.

It is still warm but not unseasonably so, and Father keeps a tight clasp on Jon’s shoulder.

“You are like to break me, Father,” Jon says, standing with his feet a shoulder-width apart as his Septa once taught him.

“Rhaenys would love to be the spare,” Jon teases, and his Father looks down on him.

Rhaegar Targaryen holds an inch in height on his youngest son and his hair is almost a shock of silvered white.

He is not near old enough for it but Ser Arthur once told him that Father aged all the way and up until the grave just before he saw Jon’s face for the first time.

“Recant,” Father says, the crown precise on his head. “Before the Stranger comes for the last I have of your mother.”

Jon winces. Father does not often mention her, rarer still for him to speak directly of her to Jon.

Jon has been trying to understand who his mother was since he was born and the only person to ever share with him is Ser Arthur. Even then it is begrudgingly. It is as though Father only wants her memory to survive within him.

“This is your blood come to marry your brother,” Father says, a hint of a smile on his handsome face.

His father is still virile, could probably sire more children, but he has not warmed Jon’s stepmother’s bed in years.

They say he sleeps alone in the King’s Chambers, the ghosts of the Mad King and his dead wife to comfort him.

The processional is ornate. Jon is dressed in the colors of his House, red and black, fire and blood a lullaby from his cradle.

Rhaenys is dark, like her mother’s people, and there does not pass a day that she does not resent it.

If Aegon is the sun, Rhaenys is the night sky and Jon the moon.

He has never been one to feast, preferring the shadows over flame, but he was born in the violence of the Battle of Trident.

His father slew Robert Baratheon, the usurper, using Blackfyre and Robert’s own warhammer to do the job.

His father fought to keep his Stark bride and lost her instead, he in the Riverlands while the Red Mountains consumed her.

“You would join the wolf and the dragon,” Jon says, and his Father smiles again, this one heavier.

“Aye. I would repeat my best work.”

Jon claps a hand down against his Father’s broad palm and Aegon turns at the sound. He smiles at Jon and Father, a boyish thing. He has reached his nine and tenth name-day and Jon has only just talked him out of wearing the Crown of Aegon the IV, a great heavy thing with dragonhead spikes with gemstones for eyes.

“Is that not how you would wish to greet the heir of the Targaryen dynasty? A dragon on your head and in your blood?”

Rhaenys and Jon share a look.

“I know I always let you farce as the Dragonknight but you are only Aegon the Unwieldy--” Jon japes, even as Aegon’s brawn comes crashing into his own.

While their coloring differs their body type is the same, as wide and strong as their Father’s.

Rhaenys is a dragon, thirsty for violence. She either watches or participates, dependent on her mood.

“You are yet half-wolf, brother,” Aegon says, teasing in a predatory way. Aegon is always up for a challenge.

“Aye,” Jon says as they circle one another.

“But the dragon has three heads.”

Jon startles out of his own memories as the sound of a lute begins, otherworldly in the sudden hush of the crowd.

The people of King’s Landing are so rarely appropriate that Jon steps forward on the dais so that he might see her better.

Aegon’s bright flash of hair and ornamentation are blinding but he sees her Father alight from the palanquin first, his hair long and dark, straight where Jon’s curls.

“Lord Eddard Stark,” Father says, and Jon turns around in astonishment.

He has not heard his father speak thusly for years, not even when he comes to hear the petitions of the people.

The man raises his eyes and bows, inclining his head.

“Your Grace,” Lord Stark says, and Jon gets a good look into his face.

Jon keeps his balance by training and will. He does not flinch when he feels fabric brush against his breeches and catches sight of the white cloak of the Kingsguard.

“Steady, Your Grace,” Ser Arthur says.

“This is my...mother’s brother?” Jon says, even as Father steps forward to clasp Lord Stark’s hand within his own.

There is no love lost between the two of them.

Father looks upon him kindly, his face twisted in a pain only Jon and perhaps Ser Arthur could see.

Lord Stark’s face is impassive. He is not a man prone to wearing his emotions on his sleeve.

He greets Aegon with the same deference and for once Aegon acts as though he were raised with noble blood.

“Lord Stark,” Aegon says, eyes serious. “It is my honor to meet your daughter and take her under my protection.”

Lord Stark does not blink and he does not smile.

“By Your will, Your Grace,” Lord Stark says, stepping away from the dais so that he is shorter than the royals assembled above him.

The palanquin remains shuttered and Jon squints in its direction.

“If it pleases Your Grace,” Lord Stark says, it is a month of travel from the North. My flower--that is, your betrothed, Lady Sansa is of a delicate constitution. After her presentation to Prince Aegon, could we retire to our rooms?”

The Queen Mother is often sickly and not usually present at public events. Father spares no expense for her health but also does not seem to notice the lack.

In times like this, Jon always does.

It is Rhaenys, to everyone’s commiserate horror, who replies.

“By all means, Lord Stark. I will have my ladies escort you and Lady Sansa to the rooms we have prepared for you.”

Father squints in Rhaenys’ direction and Aegon looks as though he may have an apoplectic fit.

“Jon,” Father says, as the assembled begin to murmur at the unexplained wait, “bring your brother’s bride to meet House Targaryen.”

Lord Stark turns his gaze sharply, interested to see who will be handling the Rose of the North.

His eyebrow twitches, a petty mistake. Ser Arthur’s cloak makes the slightest of noises and Jon feels Lord Stark’s eyes following him as he walks to the palanquin.

He’s not thought much about the Stark children. Five of them, two girls and three boys. A house with heirs aplenty.

This one is a maid of five and ten, brought to King’s Landing for the first time to take the head of the dragon.

Aegon is not a bad sort. Foolish and a bit proud, he will not be a villainous husband.

The door creaks of its own volition and Jon straightens his doublet. It’s bulky over his linen shirt but there’s nothing to be done for propriety.

There is a hand first, milk white and creamy, with long, curved fingers.

He takes it on instinct, peering down to see the rest of her.

She steps daintily, hitting the two stairs that allow her to alight and meet the ground.

It is her hair he sees next, fire-kissed. It is the hair of a dragon, of flame. Her head is bowed so that she may watch her step and when she comes alight she is slender of frame and tall, though a head shorter than he.

Her eyes meet his and his hand tightens, grinding the fine bones of her fingers into his sword-calloused palm.

“Lady Stark,” Jon says, awash in blue, “King’s Landing is yours.”

-

Sansa

301 AC

King’s Landing smells like horse droppings. The closer they get to the Red Keep, the better the air.

She asks her father if the people can breathe without the forest to surround them and he kisses her forehead for a long while.

“This is to be your home, my dear. I will be with you until you have been wed.”

Sansa shakes despite the brave words she had given to Arya.

“I shall never take a pock-marked man to bed and give him a dirty dozen ugly sons,” Arya cried, slamming the wooden hilt of her sword into Sansa’s exposed side.

“By the Seven, Arya,” Sansa said, gritting her teeth against the painful bruise sure to rise against her skin, “must you brutalize me _before_ the pock-marked man gets his turn?”

Arya laughs against her will and flings herself into Sansa’s arms.

“I will not see you leave,” she whispers, and Sansa buries her face into Arya’s long brown hair.

It has grown out, almost half the length of Sansa’s own hair.

Sansa can sit on her hair when she unbraids it, which is considered a great beauty despite the strands she finds in her bum when bathing.

“You are but three and ten, Arya. You can find a man willing to let you be his knight.”

Arya wrinkles her nose in Sansa’s dress.

“Without giving him sons?”

Sansa kisses her head again. Arya is much shorter than she and she finds herself bending double.

“Aye,” Sansa laughs. “But if you give him sons, he will have a dozen grubby little knights to train and you can run off to the Free Cities.”

Arya rears back, clutching onto Sansa’s skirts in undisguised delight.

“Please, Arya,” Sansa amends. “Do not run off to see Braavos. Mother will die of heartache and Robb fancies himself the King in the North. He will avenge you of your own dreams.”

“I hate you,” Arya says, small and pitiful like she hasn’t been since she was eleven and learning to spar with Bran.

“I could not leave Winterfell knowing that,” Sansa says, her own bright eyes heavy with tears.

Now she is here, the air filled with cloying perfumes mixed with horseshit. She has lavender in her father’s kerchief but it is not enough.

“I shall be sick when we come to a halt,” she says, and her father looks on at her in concern.

“We will get you into the Keep with haste, then.”

She waits until she hears footsteps and immediately offers the young man her hand.

It is a dragon-prince, she can tell by the colors. He is tall, as tall as her father, mayhap.

She expects it to be the heir, Prince Aegon, sixth of his name, but when she looks up (and up) to meet his eyes she sees the face of her father.

Not the face of her father exactly, she amends, but she sees the North. He is handsome to a fault. A Wolf, that much is certain. His eyes are grey but they are also purple--is it the light?

He is a dragon.

He stares at her for a long minute and his hand tightens so painfully that she lets out a mewl only he can hear.

His face is the embodiment of sorrow at the sound and he does not release her hand as he offers her King’s Landing.

 -

Aegon

301 AC

Aegon is four and ten when they tell him that he will be marrying Sansa of House Stark.

Jon has knocked him into the dirt in the Dragonpit for the fourth time this day and it is the hottest day of the Summer he’s yet felt.

Jon’s shoulders are already as broad as Father’s and he and Aegon out-eat everyone else at mealtimes.

Jon does not laugh unless it’s at Aegon’s expense.

Despite that, he never laughs during training. Aegon likes that about his little brother.

In the training yards, they are equals.

Jon is to marry Lady Ashara Dayne’s youngest. She is naught but eight years old but Father often tells Jon that he owes Ser Arthur his birthright.

Father would like to wed Aegon to Rhaenys but there are always _things_ about House Stark that Father will not discuss, not even with Jon.

Aegon often rids himself of his underclothes and thinks of Sansa Stark. They call her the Rose of Winterfell, of the North.

House Tully is red-haired and blue-eyed.

The only red-haired maidens in King’s Landing are false. They say she looks like the blood of the Tullys but she is a little wolf, nonetheless.

He likes the idea of having something precious all to himself. Stark women are said to be very precious. If you can find one to love you.

He’d like to give her many sons. They would look like dragons in whichever form her womb demanded.

He was a greenboy when he dreamed those things, before he had taken a maid down in Balerion’s crypt.

Jon gained manhood first but Aegon believes he’s bedded more.

Now that he’s met Lady Stark, watched her climb the Sept of Baelor and meet him on the dias, he can see his imagination never did her justice.

Her fingers are pale against his brother’s sun-kissed hand. Aegon has always burnt a bit in the sun. Sansa looks fair as well.

Jon’s face is blank as he delivers Aegon’s bride and Aegon cannot help but take the measure of him.

Jon was easier to goad as boys but he spends a good deal of time with the Sword of the Morning and has learned how to make himself invisible.

“My Lady Stark,” Aegon says, but he still feels strange as he watches his little brother release Lady Stark’s hand into his own.

“My brother, Prince Jon of House Targaryen,” Aegon says, but Jon has already assumed his place beside Father and Ser Arthur, just before Rhaenys.

“My sister, Princess Rhaenys of House Targaryen,” Aegon says. Rhaenys is hard to please. She is six years older than Lady Stark and she narrows her eyes accordingly.

“They make them delicate in the North, Lady Stark,” Rhaenys says. Aegon tightens his grip on Sansa’s hand, wrapped as it is around his arm.

“Wolves conserve energy before the hunt, Princess,” Lady Stark says, her gaze as blue as the Summer Sea.

When Aegon looks past her, it is Jon who meets his eyes.

 


	2. Chapter 2

-

Arthur

301 AC

“He’s not like to speak with you,” Arthur says, casting his cloak to lie on the chair near Elia’s armoire.

The room is still fashioned to Martell specifications. It is ornate and warm, Dornish in appearance.

Arthur hates coming in here. It smells like heat and dry earth.

“He wanted my boy,” Rhaegar says, and Arthur sees the child in him. Rhaegar’s back sags forward as he removes his crown with two fingers.

“He would have had him raised in the North. A wolf.”

“Aye.”

“He sought to take the last of her--the only bit of anything left. He would have come and I would have never seen my boy. My Jon.”

“Aye.”

Rhaegar turns and his eyes are monstrous. They are the eyes of old Valyria, violet and aflame.

“He has her eyes, Arthur.”

“Aye. It seems you have the way of it, Rhae,” Arthur says, and Rhaegar looks up at the familiar.

“You’ll not make Lord Stark your family,” Arthur says and Rhaegar’s shoulders dive forward.

“He’s as like to murder me on the Iron Throne than sup at my table,” Rheagar says, turning half away from the balcony.

King’s Landing rests like a festering sore beneath them, too far below to be heard from this distance.

Arthur holds his tongue. Rhaegar is a good man. He is also Arthur’s best friend and so Arthur is aware of his faults.

It was dishonorable of him to cast Elia aside and worse still for him to allow her to be sequestered in the caverns of the Red Keep. 

“It is some twenty years past,” Arthur says, and Rheagar touches the spires of his crown. It’s not the crown of his youth, the one inspired by Baelor I, a woman’s thing. Soft.

This is austere, dulled of shine and color. The points are made of the iron from Robert Baratheon’s warhammer.

It was Baratheon’s men who were sighted past Kingsgrave by Lord Manwoody. 

It was Lord Eddard Stark and his six men who came to the Tower of Joy to take Rhaegar’s bride.

Arthur shifts uncomfortably. Only Eddard Stark and Howland Reed know the truth of the day. Whent and Hightower slew four before Stark and his man slew them.

Rhaegar’s hand tightens around the crown before he places it back atop his head, disrupting his hair.

“Let it be done, then,” he says, and Arthur picks up his cloak.

-

Jon

301 AC

Father has him seated across from Lord Stark and diagonal to Lady Sansa. 

There is a meat pie for first course, a traditional Northern meal, he is told. The crust is browned with butter and the innards are stuffed with meat and mushrooms, glazed in a cream sauce.

Jon picks at his while Lord Stark eats with the utilitarianism of a man at war.

Ser Arthur stands just to the left and behind father, Dawn’s hilt visible from between the splay of his cloak.

He nods in Jon’s direction, barely noticeable.

_ Eat. _

Jon carves the pie into smaller bits and winces as Rhaenys kicks him underneath the table.

“You love messy plates like this,” Rheanys sniffs, eating hers with the royal grace she so often eschews. “Eat it like a northman,” she hisses, so low that only Jon can hear her, “and mayhaps your Uncle will deign to look you in the eye.”

Jon’s spine stiffens and he refrains from pinching her side. She used to knock his and Aegon’s heads together as children, like wayward pieces of Cyvasse.

“I’ll not embarrass you here, sister,” Jon says. “In the training yards. After Aegon has courted his lady-bride and we’ve supped.”

Rhaenys grins, a feral thing. Sometimes Jon thinks she is more dragon than he and Aegon combined. 

“Your Grace,” Jon hears in gentle, dulcet tones, and he and Rhaenys snap to attention.

Lady Sansa is looking at him pensively, her long red tresses done up and away from pink cheeks. Her gown is of a blue to match the shade of her eyes and she nods her head toward Father imperceptibly. 

“Your Grace,” Jon answers Father,  ignoring Rhaenys snorting in his direction.

“Lord Stark is an accomplished swordsman. I will not be long for the Keep after tonight--I must travel to the Reach. After supper, you and your brother ought to show him the training grounds.”

Rhaenys makes a noise of irritation and stabs at a wayward pheasant, but Jon nods, albeit reluctantly. 

“If it please Your Grace,” Aegon answers for the both of them. Lady Sansa averts her eyes. 

-

Aegon

301 AC

Lord Stark only shows emotion as he takes his daughter’s arm to escort her outside of the Keep’s gates. They have a retinue following at a safe distance but the townspeople are eager to see the Rose of the North.

She talks mutedly to her father, slim fingers dancing as she gestures.

Aegon runs right up against the backside of Jon’s legs as his brother stops suddenly.

“Seven hells, Jon,” he gripes, and Jon catches him about the arm.

“You would have been fine had you not been staring at the Lady Stark’s hands like a fool,” Jon teases and Aegon flushes unattractively.

“You wound me,” Aegon says, ducking a blow from Rhaenys out of habit. Jon laughs aloud then, as their sister has declined to accompany them.

Lady Sansa looks up at the sound, mouth pursed in an O. 

“Forgive me, my lady,” Aegon apologizes. “My brother is often awkward and it serves his nerves well if I am to laugh at him from time to time.”

Jon laughs again, slinging an arm about Aegon’s neck.

“Egg’s a good brother, eh?” Jon says, squeezing his cheek while Aegon laments the resurgence of his childhood nickname.

His mother had always smiled wanly when complained about it, all the while running her fingers through his hair.

“Every Aegon from time past has been called Egg by a brother or two,” she says, and Aegon had given her the gapped grin of a six-year-old.

Lady Sansa grins now, a full-blown smile, not the false one that ladies use at court.

“I have three brothers,” Lady Sansa says, “I might say all of you are much the same.” 

She tucks a strand of hair behind an ear and her father clears his throat. Jon releases him on a grunt and Aegon rubs at his skull where his crown lies. He wishes now that he’d been more sensible.

Jon wears a circlet of Valyrian steel, a rarity from some long-dead ancestor. There’s not any more to be made or found and it sits well against Jon’s curls.

His hair is slicked back into a knot against his skull and Aegon looks away from him and at Lord Stark.

“His Grace makes too much of my prowess with a sword,” Lord Stark says, and Aegon looks quickly to his waist.

It’s a greatsword, the sword of House Stark and Aegon forgets every lesson he’s ever had at the sight of it.”

“It’s called Ice, sir, is it not?”

It’s Jon who speaks because of course, it is. Jon is a man of few words and fewer conversations but he’s unable to be silent when truly interested. It might be his only tell, Aegon thinks.

Lord Stark is silent a moment, an infinitesimal span of time. 

“It is. It’s been passed down through generations,” he offers, and Jon makes an aborted step forward.

“It looks heavy, Lord Stark,” Aegon says, for something to do with his mouth.

Jon looks at him askance and Lady Sansa’s mouth twitches in mirth.

“Aye,” Lord Stark says. 

“The best always are.”

-

Sansa

301 AC

Dusk is settling when they arrive at the Dragonpit. It must have been beautiful when it was first built, she imagines. 

If she recalls correctly, the smallfolk destroyed it in an uprising. They’d killed five dragons of House Targaryen as well.

She shudders to think of how large they must’ve been. What it must have been to ride one.

“Arya would love it here,” Sansa says to Father. He looks down at her with a smile.

“Aye. You think I should bring her to see it?”

Sansa’s eyes widen. 

“You would? You would bring her here to visit me?” Sansa wrings her hands together as she often does when she is excited. Her mother tells her that her hands will be gnarled before her time if she continues.

“I would talk with your mother first,” Father says and Sansa beams. “I will write to Arya straight away. Will you take a letter back for her? She hates sitting for lessons so mayhap if you tell her she can read it after she’s finished them she will be in better sorts.”

Father gives her a funny look and bends down to kiss the crown of her head.

“Do you think Robb could come too,” she says, feigning nonchalance. She watches the Targaryen princes set up for sparring, guarded by two members of the Kingsguard.

King Rhaegar is notoriously protective of his children.

“He’s my heir, Sansa,” her father chides. “He must always stay close to Winterfell.” 

Sansa nods; she already knew what answer she’d receive. 

“The dark-haired one,” she whispers, “he has the look of a wolf,” she said hesitantly.

“Aye.”

Sansa sighs in irritation.

“He’s the one. The one you never talk about. Aunt Lyanna’s--” her father makes a quick sound, low in his throat.

She doesn’t have the time to press any further because the wolf-prince, Jon, calls out to father from across the pit.

“If you have any lessons, Lord Stark, we would be more than pleased to hear them.”

Prince Aegon looks at her once and the tips of her ears pink. He is lovely, silver-haired like the Targaryens of old. She wonders if she will give him babes of his coloring.

Her hands tighten reflexively on her skirts.

Prince Jon moves first, like the crack of a whip. His footwork is immaculate. His sword is not Valyrian steel, she doesn’t think. Ice is and she can tell the difference, even now.

It’s fluid, the way he uses it, parrying back and forth until he draws his older brother into his space.

The discordant clang as the two swords clash is jarring.

“Father,” she murmurs, but her father looks truly interested, for the first time all evening.

Prince Jon feints backward, his sword held to his left. Prince Aegon slashes at Prince Jon’s weakness and Prince Jon blocks it, swinging his sword in an arc above his head.

It’s all very quickly over as Prince Jon uses brute strength to knock his brother back and then Prince Aegon disarms him; a sleight of hand.

Her brow furrows.

The Kingsguard behind Jon moves, a sudden twitch of cloth and Sansa’s eyes are drawn to the striking white of his uniform.

He’s the Lord Commander, she thinks, and Sansa tugs on her father’s sleeve.

“I’m not Robb or Bran or Arya, Seven forbid,” Sansa says, “but did it not look as though the wolf was winning?”

Father is silent as both boys approach, hair slicked to skin by sweat.

Sansa can see it shining in the hollows of their throats and she looks away, face hot.

Father takes her arm and gives her hand a little pat. 

“To be young again,” Father says, and Prince Aegon lets loose a boisterous laugh.

“My little brother, eh,” he says, cuffing Prince Jon around the ear. “Gives me a show, every time.”

Prince Jon does not smile but inclines his head in her direction.

_ His eyes,  _ she thinks, even as Father pulls her close.

-

Jon

301 AC

“Enough, Your Grace.”

Jon’s sword falls to the ground with a noise that echoes throughout the Throne Room. It’s such a loud sound that he fears it will wake his father from slumber.

Ser Arthur sheaths Dawn and wipes the sweat from his brow.

“If you’ve finished proving yourself, it is well past the time that Princes should be abed.”

“Let Aegon the Unwieldy sleep,” Jon says and Ser Arthur steps closer.

“Your Grace.”

Jon sheaths his own sword and wishes for a second that it was Valyrian steel. That it had a name.

Aegon will wield Blackfyre one day and Jon will have to carve his own way.

“I did it for him,” Jon says in a rush, feeling suddenly small and unlikable. He doesn’t like this.

“Aye.”

Jon begins to walk away and pauses, waiting for Ser Arthur to follow.

“Don’t do that. I hate it when you agree with me and don’t actually say what it is you’re thinking.”

“It’s not an agreement, Your Grace. I am acknowledging why you did what it is you think you’ve done.”

Jon snorts and snags a torch from the wall. His hair will smell like flames until tomorrow when he’s had his morning wash.

The tapestries leer in the firelight, Rhaenys Targaryen riding Meraxes over Dorne. And then her and Meraxes falling.

Aegon the Conqueror’s first portrait after he lost her, Visenya in the background. 

Jon looks for a moment before rounding the corner.

“If we had dragons, it would be easier.”

“Would it, Your Grace.” 

He does not say it as a question and Jon deflates, his shoulders coming down from their perch about his ears.

They come to his room and Ser Arthur takes the torch from Jon as he undresses, shirt and breeches in a pile on the floor.

He pauses and returns to the clothes, folding them as best he can.

“Now you’ve made more mess for the servants,” Ser Arthur teases and Jon flushes as he never does in public.

“Can you tell me about it?” Jon asks after a moment, removing the tie from his hair. His curls are unruly at night and he shoves them away impatiently.

Ser Arthur stiffens.

“Father never speaks of her. And Lord Stark--I don’t believe he takes too kindly to me,” Jon laughs dryly.

“I’m always someone’s ghost, it seems.”

Ser Arthur begins haltingly, the way he always does when Jon demands this tale. When he was younger, Ser Arthur always described the tourney at Harrenhal. He only spoke about how Father had fallen in love instantly, presenting his mother with the winter roses.

“It was foolish to choose Dorne,” Ser Arthur says. “I always told him so. At the same time, it was his best chance.”

Jon nods, although he doesn’t fully understand. How can he? He never knew her. 

“They were--very happy,” Ser Arthur says. “He named it the Tower of Joy for her, you see.”

These are the parts Jon knows. These are in the history books. Robert’s Rebellion.

“She was expecting. Heavy with child,” Ser Arthur says apologetically as if Jon were not that child. Jon waves a hand, uncharacteristically impatient.

“No one could know where they were. It was very risky, you must understand. R--His Grace thought his father not long for the world.” Ser Arthur pauses, as though he would like to say something different.

“It was a hard decision. Your grandfather--” 

“The Mad King,” Jon interrupts, stiff.

“King Aerys,” Ser Arthur compromises, “sent the Lord Commander Hightower to come and take your father back to the crownlands. The fighting was fierce and the crown was in danger.”

Ser Arthur’s eyes are far away. His sword hand twitches by his side.

“There are things that are not mine to speak of, Your Grace,” Ser Arthur says, but Jon leans forward anyway, perched on the edge of his bed. The sheets are red like blood.

“Your father rode back to the crownlands and left the Lord Commander, Whent, and I to guard your mother.”

Jon is silent.

“The midwife could not save her.” Ser Arthur looks at him with grief, with eyes haunted.

“It is not fitting that I should tell you what your mother looked like on her deathbed. No child deserves that memory.” Jon’s fingers dig into his knees, a ten-pointed star of pain.

“It was determined that I must take you to your father immediately. After the Lord Commander, I was the best at combat.”

“Was,” Jon laughs, an ache in his throat. “They call you the Sword of the Morning.”

Ser Arthur shrugs, his hands still fisted.

“They would stay behind and guard your mother’s body. As instructed.” Ser Arthur has not spoken this many consecutive words since Jon was a child.

“Your Lord Uncle came for his sister--as was his right. They slew most of Lord Stark’s bannermen before they too were slain.”

Ser Arthur backs away and Jon knows the story is ending.

“Only Lord Stark and his man Reed can tell you the ending to what happened in the Red Mountains. You and I,” Ser Arthur says, “made it to the crownlands. I placed you in your father’s hands.”

Jon wraps his arms about his waist and he suddenly feels very small and alone.

“What did he. What did he say?”

Ser Arthur smiles, a sad thing.

“He met you holding Robert Baratheon’s warhammer. Covered in his blood.”

-

Sansa

301 AC

They offer her handmaidens from the crownlands and she accepts them with the grace of her lady mother. 

It’s her northwomen that lace her into her stays until her waist is nearly nonexistent. It’s already quite small but Old Nan always insisted that she be as tightly stuck as a pig.

Lady Manderly fusses with her hair, debating on whether or not to leave it down.

“The Princes looked upon your hair favorably when it was down yesterday, Sansa,” she teases, and Sansa turns around to grip at her hand. Wylla Manderly is seven and ten and squeezes Sansa’s hand affectionately.

“Which Prince,” Sansa asks and Wylla looks at her strangely. 

“The both, dear,” she teases and Sansa blushes prettily.

“One Prince per Lady,” Wylla says, running the brush through Sansa’s hair. “Those are the rules.”

They arrive just before the rest of the Keep breaks their fast. Her father looks at her in admonishment concerning her almost lateness and Sansa flushes the color of her hair.

“It is lovely to see your face first thing in the morning, Lady Sansa,” Prince Aegon says and Sansa smiles down at him as she is helped to her seat.

“We almost missed it entirely,” Princess Rhaenys says and then makes a hurt noise from the further end of the table.

She sits most often with Prince Jon but Sansa doesn’t know if that is due to her arrival or how it has always been. Rhaenys doesn’t seem mean-spirited but she does look as though she would eat a man whole.

“Would be that we had all missed Rhaenys’ face,” Prince Jon mutters and Sansa laughs although she doubts she is meant to hear.

Prince Jon looks up at the sound and his face curls into a smile. It is not like the smile he gives to his sister and brother--and Sansa is distracted by the latter.

“Your Lord father tells us you favor lemoncakes,” Aegon says conspiratorially and Sansa leans in as close as is appropriate. 

“I do,” she says, resisting the urge to rest her chin on her hand.

“I’ll have them served with the noonday meal, then.” Sansa rears back and blinks.

“You needn’t go through any trouble, Your Grace,” she whispers, “I’m as like to eat all of them in one sitting.”

Prince Aegon looks down at her with good humor. “Who else am I making them for?” 

Sansa glances down at the oatcakes on her plate. “I won’t share them, Your Grace,” she teases and Prince Aegon laughs loudly enough that father turns to look at them both.

“My apologies,” Prince Aegon says to the table at large, “Lady Sansa is quick-witted so early in the day.”

Sansa shakes her head decisively. “Nay, that is my younger sister. I’m sharper-tongued,” she says, smiling as her father pats her hand.

When she ventures to glance up again, Prince Jon is looking in her direction. Princess Rhaenys appears ready to bludgeon Prince Aegon to an early death without King Rhaegar there to stop her.

Jon looks between the two of them and raises his eyebrows.

Sansa laughs again but this time it is much quieter.

After the meal, Sansa has retired with a collection of poems from the Keep’s library and Wylla is already in her own chambers when she hears a knock at her own doors. 

Father is busier than she would like, sitting for hours on end in conversation with the Hand. She’s left often to her own devices but she’s dreadful at directions, which means that it’s almost impossible for her to venture outside of the Keep.

She’s been waiting on the chance to get to know her husband-to-be but she feels foolish for needing to sit quietly until he deigns to pay her attention.

She’s got lovely manners, Septa Mordane always told her so, but the Septa never told her they’d feel like sacraments.

Sansa goes to open her door, pushing lavender skirts out of her way.

She’s surprised to see a veritable retinue outside of her rooms, heralded by her betrothed himself, as though she’s made thought into reality.

“I thought my lady might like to see the Sept of Baelor,” Prince Aegon says, his head ducked slightly so she can better hear him.

Prince Jon stands a bit away from his brother, storms’ eyes fixed on Sansa’s own blue ones.

He hasn’t looked away, not yet and Sansa breaks the connection, smiling widely at Prince Aegon in response.

“I’m sorry we’ve brought most of the Keep to your door--Jon and I can’t travel without a host and I’ve brought Lady Selmy and her retinue so that your honor remains intact.” He winks down at her-- _ winks _ \--and Sansa covers her mouth with her wide sleeves.

Lady Ashara looks much like her brother and she smiles so widely that her purple eyes turn into small slits in her lovely face.

Prince Jon steps back so that she can come out of her doors and she brushes against him despite his attempt to give her space.

His brows lower and Sansa can feel the back of her neck pink.

“Your Grace,” she says, and Prince Jon’s mouth quirks into that smile that puts creases in the corners of his eyes.

“Egg’s unbearable so early in the day. He’ll have you climb the statue of Baelor itself if he thinks you would enjoy the view,” Prince Jon whispers, bowing his own head.

Sansa can’t help but laugh and Prince Aegon looks between the two of them and then laughs himself.

“Lady Selmy already has your lovely bride back at Harvest Hall,” Prince Aegon says and Prince Jon straightens his shoulders and Sansa feels the loss of his gaze like no furs on a winter’s eve.

“Aye,” Prince Jon says, “I leave you to your Winter Rose, brother.”

Lady Selmy takes her by the arm as they go and collect Wylla from her rooms down the hall. 

-

Arthur

301 AC

They are a day’s ride from Highgarden when the raven comes.

They’re stopped at Cider Hall at the courtesy of the red-apple Fossoways. His Grace does not intend to sit on their hospitality for long, as they’ve got a thousand men-at-arms accompanying them on progress.

It is Rhaegar and the small council who will meet with Lord Tyrell at Highgarden in the hopes of reaching adequate trade agreements.

Arthur has never learned how to play the game of hospitality the way Rhaegar has.

The raven comes from the west, the scroll tied haphazardly to its body.

The ink is spilled and barely dried in some places but it’s legible enough.

He and Rhaegar are close enough that he may open the scrolls sent to the King as long as there are no witnesses.

It’s in Daenerys’ hand.

She is just seven and ten, the Aunt of children older than she and the last of Aerys and Rhaella.

_He is marching to the crownlands_ \--here the words are smudged but Arthur is already standing, the scroll faced toward the light of the sun.

_ Darkstar arrived in the dead of night. He is coming. _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys. thank you for your lovely comments and the even lovelier reception. they always make me think and they're SO nice to see after hours of staring at maps of Westeros lol


	3. Chapter 3

-

Aegon

301 AC

Maester Pycelle does not come to wake Aegon as usual.

He sits straight up in bed and though he cannot hear anything from within his chambers, the air seems charged.

He dresses hastily, using the recently emptied chamber pot and scrubbing thick bristles over his teeth.

When he opens the doors to his rooms the sound becomes unbearable. The Keep is bustling and Aegon is almost knocked to his side in someone’s haste.

Before he can become angry, Rhaenys is straightening him up, her hair twisted into a mass of black braids at the crown of her head.

“I’m going to get Mother,” she says, and Aegon stops to look down on her. Rhaenys is not tall, despite the heights of both brothers, but she seems to stare down at him now.

“For what? Mother hates being disturbed.” Aegon pauses. “And why is the Keep so busy at this hour?” Aegon hates the sound of his own voice and Rhaenys looks at him with pity in her eyes.

“There’s been a raven. Tyrion Lannister and his host are advancing on the crownlands.”

Aegon staggers backward, away from the grip of her hands.

“Father’s in the Reach. He must be several days at Highgarden come now,” Aegon says and Rhaenys shakes him the way she did when they were small and he would cry over the dead butterflies they found near the Sept.

“Aye, you dullard. I don’t know how long Lannister’s been marching east. If we’ve got the news then Father is probably on his way back.”

“If he ever reached Highgarden at all,” Jon says, his voice coming from down the hall.

He is fully dressed, his hair half pulled back and his scabbard attached to his hip.

“He’ll try to cut off his progress along the Goldroad,” Jon adds, brow furrowed. Aegon runs a hand through his own hair.

“The Keep’s under my command until Father returns,” Aegon says, but there’s no joy in it. Jon looks at him with warmth and Aegon wants to wrap his arms around his brother’s back. It’s a weak moment, one he cannot afford to indulge.

“Yes, that’s so. Lord Stark is awake and most of the small council. You’ll need to consult the Hand,” Jon says and Rhaenys ducks past Aegon and into his rooms, skirts bunched in her fists.

“They’ve had more battle experience than us,” Jon says, “that is to say, more than none.”

Aegon’s nodding but he’s not truly listening. It’s not until he can feel Rhaenys behind him, rising on tiptoes that he comes back to himself.

She’s holding that dreadful dragonhead crown and she looks at it disdainfully even as she offers it to him.

“You and Jon are so bleeding tall,” she hisses, “come down here so I can put this monstrosity on your head.”

Aegon does not move--how can he--and it’s Jon that holds out his palm to their sister and so it’s he that puts the crown on Aegon’s head.

“Don’t mind it,” Jon whispers, quiet, for the two of them. “It’s an ugly thing, but you won’t have to wear it long.”

Aegon looks into grey eyes and laughs and laughs.

-

Jon

301 AC

Jon’s unsure if Aegon’s ever seen the inside of the War Room.

Not since they were babes, he’s sure. Aegon’s scared of Father--they all are, to some extent. He’s never played with them, not as other fathers have. Jon’s not sure if that’s because he’s King and doesn’t have the time or because he’s uninterested.

Jon scratches at his arm. That’s uncharitable. Father has always been there for them as best he could.

Now there’s a raven that says that the Lannisters are marching on King’s Landing and Father is in the Reach.

Jon thinks on that, considers what Ser Arthur would tell him if he could be here instead of protecting Father.

_We’ve got the missive. You have to know we’re coming._

Jon nods to himself and catches Lord Stark’s glance out of the corner of his eye.

He and Rhaenys had decided to include him in the talks. It’s a pity that Rhaenys isn’t in line for the Crown. She doesn’t always have the temperament for rule but she certainly has the mind.

Jon may envy his older brother at times but he’s not keen on having the weight of Westeros resting upon his shoulders.

Jon’s wearing his own crown and Rhaenys hers. She says it’ll help to present a united front.

Rhaenys is in the west wing of the Keep, probably trying to console her mother. Jon sees Queen Elia once a moon’s turn--if that.

She’ll be cross the next time Jon sees her, badgering him for privy information. Father’s always allowed Rhaenys to do whatever they did but she was never trained for statecraft because she’s not in the line of succession.

Aegon never tells her anything of import but she knows that Jon will tell her everything she wants to know about what she’s missed. She’s not one he wants to cross when she’s angered--especially if that anger is directed at him.

The War Room resembles the one on Dragonstone, although Jon’s not seen that since he was a boy of eight, and the carved dragonheads seemed much bigger than they are today.

Lord Baelor Hightower sits, pensive in the corner, Hand of the King at his breast. Jon laughs as he thinks of his old name, Baelor Breakwind, but this is a man grown and a man stressed, at that.

He never wanted the seat, not so close to Queen Elia, but his father hasn’t left Hightower in years and he is more experienced than his brothers.

 _The Hightowers have Targaryen blood,_ Jon remembers father saying. He supposes that makes them less susceptible to treason. Jon thinks that’s always made men more so.

It’s Hightower who is speaking now, in a warm cadence that oft put Jon at ease as a boy.

“Your Grace,” he says and Jon and Aegon both look up, although it is Aegon to whom the honorific is directed.

“Your Father is en route from Cider Hall. He’s not like to make it to the crownlands in time, as we’ve no idea the kind of head start the Lannisters have.”

Aegon nods, face pensive. They’ve both been trained to rule. Their father fears the extinction of their House after the murder of the Mad King by Jaime Lannister.

Now Aegon leans his fists upon the table to brace his weight. He seems untouchable in this moment, gems sparkling from his scalp.

“Have we begun to fortify the Keep, then? If they’re to advance I’d like to see my mother and sister removed from this place.”

Jon startles. Aegon catches his eye and looks away, down at the carved map of Westeros. The Lannisters have a journey, coming as they are from the edge of the Sunset Sea.

“Where to, Your Grace,” Baelor says hesitantly. Aegon is silent and Jon’s fist clenches by his side.

“Dragonstone. A thousand men-at-arms.”

Jon steps forward in an almost-aborted move.

“Your Grace,” he says, although he wants to call his brother Egg and ruffle his hair.

Aegon inclines his head in acknowledgment.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but we don’t know how many men are coming and how many allies we have. What we do know is that we haven’t much time before they arrive. The time and manpower needed to send that many men to Dragonstone--” Jon pauses even as Aegon holds his gaze.

“I’m not sure that we can spare it.”

Aegon leans backward, standing at full height.

“Then what do you propose, brother? We leave the entirety of House Targaryen at the mercy of a family who would just as like see us dead?’

Lord Hightower opens his mouth to speak but it’s Lord Stark who answers.

“Prince Jon has the right of it,” Lord Stark says, leaning over the map himself. Aegon startles at the sound.

“What say you, Lord Stark? My brother and I must defer in military matters.”

Jon hears the rebuke and winces. He’s not here to correct his brother.

“We can’t waste the men needed to fortify the city. You may decide how best to protect your mother and sister from within these walls. The Goldcloaks would be better served as defense.”

Jon nods and Lord Stark looks upon him once more.

“If I were Father,” Jon begins, “I’d like to try and cut them off at the east bank of the Blackwater,” Jon says slowly, and Lord Stark nods.

“Aye. You don’t know your odds. But the King will need to move quickly if he’s to come all the way to the Rush. He’s at a disadvantage no matter how we look at it.”

Baelor speaks up, brow furrowed. “Your Graces, it seems to me that His Grace intends for you to fortify the Keep and defend the city.”

Jon nods, pensive.

Aegon looks between the three of them, his face uncharacteristically blank.

“We don’t know what His Grace has decided but he’s undoubtedly on the move,” Baelor says.

Jon glances between the three of them and stops his gaze on Aegon. His brother nods.

“Archers man the wall. Amass the infantry at the Lion Gate.” Aegon says, pausing to look at Jon.

“Prepare for siege.”

-

Sansa

301 AC

Surprisingly, it’s Princess Rhaenys to come and find them, her hand wrapped tightly around Sansa’s wrist.

The Keep is abuzz with nervous energy and Wylla has had to sit on Sansa’s hands to keep her from worrying at them.

“Are we under attack?” Sansa asks, even as Wylla pins her hair back from her face.

“Not yet,” Princess Rhaenys says, mouth tight, “but we soon will be.”

Sansa can’t help the shiver that goes down her spine at that. No one is foolish enough to attack the North directly and Sansa can’t imagine that Northmen are easily felled.

But this is the Southron capital.

“What would you have me do?” Sansa says, lifting her chin. She’s not keen on getting dirty, it must be admitted. She likes pretty things and tries to take care of them. Arya would be laughing at her right now.

She’s not stupid, though. Father would look on at her in disappointment if she weren’t to help in whatever way was most appropriate.

Princess Rhaenys observes her for a moment. She’s shorter than Sansa but Sansa still manages to feel small under her gaze.

“You’ve a sweet way about you,” the princess says begrudgingly. “I’d have you help get the women and children to Maegor’s Holdfast. I’ll show you the way.”

Sansa nods, bunching her skirts in her hands. “Wylla will help too,” Sansa insists, and Wylla nods vigorously.

“I don’t know when they’re set to arrive,” the princess says, hurrying along at a pace that would be impossible if Sansa didn’t have ample practice with Arya, “but it probably won’t be enough time to convince a dozen highborn ladies that they need to forgo flirtations for their own safety.”

Sansa snorts and the princess looks back at her with wide eyes. “My apologies, Your Grace,” Sansa says, blushing red.

The princess waves her hand. “No, no. I just didn’t believe that ladies like you sounded like stuck pigs,” she says, and Sansa is almost angered until she hears the note of teasing in Princess Rhaenys’ voice.

“They don’t, I’m quite sure,” Sansa says dryly. “I trust you’ll keep my secret?”

The Princess smiles and it is prettier than Sansa expects. The princess is dark-haired and lovely but it seems that she spends the majority of her time scowling between one of her two younger brothers.

Her face becomes blank almost as quickly as it had blazed into happiness. “Speaking of secrets,” she says, pausing to take Sansa’s hand. She looks askance at Wylla and Sansa sends her an apologetic grimace as the other girl moves slightly away to avoid eavesdropping on what is sure to be a private conversation.

“I need you to do something for me, Lady Sansa of House Stark.”

Sansa’s abruptly aware of the age gap, she’s a maid of five and ten to a woman of twenty and one. Rhaenys is beyond marriageable age and will most likely be wed soon. There’s a desperation about her that has Sansa squeezing her hand.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“I’m going to do something foolhardy. No--don’t bother asking what it is, I won’t tell you. What I can say is that my brothers will be angered with me,” she says, her face thoughtful. Her brows move downward the way Prince Jon’s do when he’s deep in thought. They look like siblings, she thinks.

“I want you to tell them not to worry. Tell Egg that I love him. Tell him that I love him very much,” the princess says.

“Tell Jon--” she pauses here, and Sansa can feel her own heart tapping out a beat, an echo in her chest.

“Tell Jon not to come after me. That’s important, Sansa.” Princess Rhaenys has one hand in between both of Sansa’s and the other is cupping her elbow.

Sansa knows she looks big-eyed; she’s never been able to hide her facial expressions, but she nods vigorously all the same.

Princess Rhaenys smiles again, this one softer. “You’ll never be any good at stealth.”

Sansa lets out a hysterical little laugh. “Aye, that’s so. You’d never know me for a wolf,” Sansa says, “until I show you.”

Princess Rhaenys gives her an inscrutable look and waves Wylla back over to continue their progress.

When they finally arrive, Sansa can see that the women are irritated; it seems that the princess gathered them here by force of command rather than explanation.

She has the grace to look abashed as she nudges Sansa forward.

“Placate them, if you can,” the princess says, and Sansa pats her on the hand in the same familiar way she’d do her sister.

Sansa’s eyes widen in shame--one conversation does not a friend make--but the princess only laughs. “I do like you, it would seem,” she says, and then she’s running off, skirts so high that Sansa might catch sight of an ankle.

Sansa does her best to corral them and they’re listening, if only because of the former presence of the Princess, when Sansa hears the upraised voices of men.

The women hear it too and she can feel the terror sweeping through the small crowd.

“Wylla,” Sansa says, “Can you keep guiding them? I’m going to go distract whoever is yelling so that the ladies aren’t so frightened.”

Wylla rolls her eyes but nods as Sansa makes haste to the other end of the hallway.

It’s the two Princes. Now that she’s closer, she can hear recognize the voices. She stops before she rounds the corner, heart in her throat. She doesn’t want to incite the wrath of either.

“Would you like the Crown, brother?” Prince Aegon says, sounding truly angry, and Sansa stumbles back at the vitriol in his tone.

When Prince Jon replies, he’s decidedly calmer, even if his voice is harsher than she’s heard it yet.

“No. Keep the blasted thing.” Prince Jon says.

“I’m to lead the men. At least until Father returns. I can’t do that if you’re to undermine me in front of them.”

Sansa peeks around the corner and sees Prince Jon sigh. The Princes are of a height, their heads bowed together. They’re so different it’s striking.

“I’ve no desire to undermine you, brother. We’re fortifying the gates on your command. I just didn’t believe we could spare the men or get the ships ready in time to sail our sister and your mother to Dragonstone.”

Prince Aegon laughs a strange, hard sound.

“I need to protect them. Father would want it so. You don’t know what it is to need to protect a mother, do you?”

Sansa gasps and rears backward, hand clapped over her mouth. Her wrist aches a bit from where the princess had grabbed it in her hurry and it pulsates in time with the beat of her heart.

Both men are silent for a second and then she hears Prince Jon’s voice, blank.

“Aye. I don’t know what it’s like to have a mother.”

“Jon--by the Seven, I didn’t mean it.”

Prince Jon is already walking away; she can hear him coming in her direction. She’s waited too long. There’s no Arya to escape with when they’re listening behind closed doors.

Jon rounds the corner with his head held high and sees Sansa almost immediately, pressed into some ancient Targaryen tapestry.

The sun shines through the bay windows of the antechamber and Sansa reddens as it illuminates her face.

Jon pauses, staring down at her so long that Sansa’s heart feels as though it’ll beat out of her chest.

“Are you lost?” he finally says, and Sansa removes her hand from her mouth and gasps wetly.

“I was trying to escort the ladies down to Maegor’s Holdfast so that they wouldn’t be frightened once we were attacked but I heard arguing and hoped I could steer you away from the ladies because I didn’t want to scare them and I didn’t intend to eavesdrop. I didn’t, truly.”

She’s shaking like a leaf in the wind and Prince Jon steps closer to her, brow furrowed. She cranes her neck back to see his face and there’s nothing but kindness it.

“I’ve frightened you,” he murmurs, and she laughs, hands trembling.

“No, I’ve gone and frightened myself. I’ve also shown you the worst manners imaginable,” she whispers, and Prince Jon’s index and middle fingers come to rest under her chin, nudging her face upward.

He looks appalled to have touched her so intimately and Sansa blushes again, probably the color of her hair.

“My Lady,” he says, and it’s his turn to look cornered.

“No, no,” she rushes, hands fluttering in the air between them.

“It’s fine. You’ve done nothing untoward,” Sansa says, but now Prince Jon’s gaze isn’t on her face at all, but her wrist.

“You’ve been bruised,” he says, and his voice sounds closer to the cadence he’d worn when arguing with his brother.

“Aye,” she admits, rubbing her fingers around the wrist. “I am fair-skinned. I bruise easily. My sister spars with me--that is to say, she parries and I duck--and she’s made me red and purple many a time.”

Sansa chews on her lower lip and wills herself into silence.

“Who is responsible? I’ll see that you have their head,” Prince Jon says, stepping closer to her in his rage.

He looks down on her again and sighs. “Or you may decide the punishment. My Lady,” he rectifies, and Sansa is going to turn an irreversible shade of claret.

“You wouldn’t behead a Princess of the realm, would you?” Sansa teases, and the prince eyes her for sincerity before huffing out a laugh himself.

“She didn’t mean to. She’s as worried as the rest of us. Nobody else would have even been marked by such a hold,” Sansa says, wishing that she could offer him her embrace. She lowers her head instead, fussing with her sleeves.

“Rhaenys is not like to know her own strength. She’s given Egg and I a number of nosebleeds in the yards,” Prince Jon says, still staring down at the top of her bowed head.

“I didn’t mean to listen to you,” Sansa repeats, hushed in the now-quiet corner of the castle.

“I know, my lady. We argue often and loudly. My brother,” he pauses, as though searching for the words, “is a good man. He must meet a score of demands.”

Sansa nods. “He seems kind and loyal. I would think he would make a good husband,” she says, and Prince Jon flinches away.

“May I escort you down to the ladies’ chambers? Egg and I will soon be busy and your father is sitting on the war council. I don’t know when you’ll next be able to speak with him.”

Sansa suddenly wants her father dearly and ruthlessly squashes the desire before Prince Jon can see her cry.

It seems she doesn’t do a good enough job because Prince Jon makes a sound in his throat, the same noise her mother used to make when she and her siblings got scrapes as children.

“Please, Lady Sansa. Don’t cry. I don’t quite know if I could bear it if you cried. Would you like to see your father? Or Egg, mayhap? Please, don’t,” he says and Sansa looks into his eyes and finds them troubled, his stance awkward.

“I’m really alright,” she says, swiping at her eyes with the back of one hand. She’s ruined any good impression she might ever make on Prince Jon, and quite thoroughly at that.

“I won’t keep you any longer. If you could show me the way, I would be much obliged.” Sansa holds her head up as Prince Jon offers her his arm.

“Please. Don’t lie for my sake,” he says as he takes her arm, and his voice is lower than before. Warmer. “I would be...bothered. To know that you’ve been crying. Please.”

“I will be better. Not at the moment,” Sansa admits, “but soon.”

He’s wearing his crown and it seems to keep his unruly hair pushed back from his forehead. He’s looking down at her as she speaks, and when she glances up at him, he clears his throat and looks away.

He delivers her to the entrance of the Holdfast with haste, his attention scattered.

“If you need anything, anything at all, you can ask for Aegon, myself or Rhaenys.” He’s still holding onto her arm as she nods her acknowledgment.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she says stupidly, and Prince Jon laughs, full-throated if low.

He opens his mouth and closes it like a baby bird, bowing before he turns on his heel and leaves her at the door.

-

Arthur

301 AC

Rhaegar’s fist comes crashing down against the Caswell’s dining table.

Bitterbridge was not expecting guests and nor were they expecting to house their King for an indeterminate period of time.

Arthur places a hand on Rhaegar’s shoulder and his friend stares up at him, eyes hard.

“I should’ve have culled the Lannisters. Root and stem.”

Arthur sighs and removes his hand.

“You needed to keep Casterly Rock in the Crown’s hands. Lord Lannister betrayed your family. His son--” Arthur cuts himself off before Rhaegar can lose control of his wits.

For all his planning, Rhaegar is impulsive when emotions run high.

“We are outnumbered. They’ve got the bloody Mountain, who I myself knighted. He left Tywin defenseless during the failed Sack and I now know what manner of man I face.”

Rhaegar sits heavily, steepling his chin on his fingers.

“They have all of House Clegane,” Arthur says, moving the cyvasse piece that represents the landed knights.

“Who else.”

Rhaegar’s crown sits across from him and he pushes it out of the way to lean forward, hair falling against his eyes.

“Lefford’s men,” Rhaegar muses, and Arthur nods. “They won’t leave the Golden Tooth unmanned,” Arthur says and Rhaegar nods in acknowledgment.

“Aye. Lydden’s men. They’ll send them ahead from Deep Den on the Goldroad,” Rhaegar says. Arthur pushes a few pieces further inland.

“Lydden and Marbrand will come from the north if they come at all,” Rhaegar says and Arthur’s brow furrows.

“Tyrion is a sly devil. He’ll have promised them Lannister gold and seats on his new small council,” Rhaegar says.

Arthur shrugs, placing Dawn at the opposite end of the table.

“They’ll never have a half-man on the Iron Throne. You’re not your father. There’s been peace these last eight and ten years,” Arthur says.

“Lannister’s their liege lord. Daenerys is with child, a second to add to the son she’s already given him.” Rhaegar pauses in thought.

“I sought mercy. I sought _peace.”_ Rhaegar says, his knuckles white. “I’ll have my peace. I’ll keep a Lannister in Casterly Rock, raised by House Targaryen,” Rhaegar says.

“If he’s not going to take the Throne, who else?” Arthur thinks aloud and Rhaegar paces around the table, back and forth.

“He’s brought Darkstar to kill you,” Rhaegar says at last, and Arthur looks up.

Gerold Dayne is more than ten years his junior, a man of some twenty-odd years and a disposition like all Seven of Hells.

“He’ll die trying to take Dawn,” Arthur says. It’s not anger coursing through his blood, but exhaustion. He has never been defeated in his long life but Darkstar is younger. He’s got more to lose.

“We’ve not once fallen when we fought together. Had you been at the Trident it would have been a cleaner victory,” Rhaegar says, his voice far away.

Rhaegar rubs at his chest and Arthur wonders if the blow still ails him.

“Lannister’s counting on that,” Arthur admits, heaving a great sigh.

“Will the boys know what to do? It’s between you and me out here. I haven’t brought anyone else I trust.” Rhaegar’s eyes are wide and Arthur can see the handsome boy that Lyanna had fallen in love with.

“You’ve trained them, Rhae. We’ve trained them. Lord Stark is there,” Arthur adds on an afterthought. Rhaegar hums in response.

“Stark is a good man. He’ll protect the city, if not for my boys then for his daughter.”

Arthur nods. “They’re green. That’s not something but war can change and you never wished that upon them.”

Rhaegar scrubs at his face, his calluses catching on the fine hairs of the beard he has yet to shave.

“I’ll not risk another raven. Jon will know to fortify the City. He’ll help Aegon organize the men.”

Arthur looks at the bowed head of his King and does not speak the truth aloud.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every time you comment my existential joy increases


	4. Chapter 4

 

-

Aegon

301 AC

“Darling. Sit. How am I to understand you when you keep pacing the length of my rooms?”

Aegon slumps down on his mother’s bed, pushing the heavy velvet drapes that enclose it away from his face.

She coughs twice before coming to sit near him, drawing his head down against her shoulder. He’s so much larger than she that he fears he might crush her entirely.

“Your Father is in the Reach,” mother says, her voice soothing. He winces when he thinks of how little he comes to see her. He knows how difficult it is for her to walk for long stretches. 

Grand Maester Pycelle says it’s a blessing from the Mother that she’s lived as long as she has. From the look of her now, she hasn’t got much time left.

“Your sister tells me I’m to be moved for my own safety,” Mother says, and Aegon releases a wet laugh.

“Aye. I’m sure she had a woman’s touch about her when she told you.”

Mother chuckles herself, running small hands through Aegon’s hair.

“A dragon, that one. Had I not suckled her to my own breast I would never believe her mine.”

Aegon sits up so he can look his mother in the eye.

“I’m weaker than her. Than the both of them,” Aegon says and the words sit heavy and ugly in the warm air of the room.

“Weakness is relative,” his mother says, drawing one leg up so she can sit on it. She looks as small as a child and Aegon wants to keep her close.

“What does it mean to be weak, Egg?”

Aegon closes his eyes and runs one hand through his hair.

“They know what to do faster and they do it sooner. I don’t know, Mother. I’m trying. Truly, I am.”

Mother smiles at him, her cheek resting upon one hand. “You’re my babe. I think you’re the best and most clever at all things. Mayhap your sister excels where you do not. Your brother quicker with a sword,” she pauses, reaching out to take one of his hands.

“But there are things that just Aegon does that are better and brighter than the both of them. After all, it’s  _ you _ in my chambers, correct?” Mother says this last with a glint in her eye and Aegon laughs against his will.

“Rhaenys would rather die and Jon--Jon couldn’t come to you, Mother. You know.”

His mother looks askance and Aegon watches the pretty color in her cheeks fade. Her hair is as long and heavy as Rhaenys’ but it seems to weigh down her very neck.

“No. Not him.”

She shivers a little and reaches for him with one hand, as though blind.

“Eggy,” she says plaintively, and Aegon’s heart begins to race the way it always does when she’s like this.

Aegon longs to ask what happened--why Father chose a Stark bride and set her aside, but there’s no delicate way to phrase it and he thinks the asking would make the trembling worsen. 

“Aye, mother, it’s me.”

“Eggy, where’s your sister? Have you seen your father?”

Aegon squeezes her fingers so tightly he fears that he will break them and draws her forehead to meet his own.

“I’m here, mother. Everything’s alright.”

Mother’s eyes are so close that her lashes brush against his cheeks as she blinks. Aegon keeps his breaths even and holds very still, listening to the drum of his own heart.

“Everything’s alright,” he repeats at a murmur and he releases her head as she pulls away, blinking her eyes like a babe in sunlight.

Rhaenys was never any good at this, never had the patience for it, but Aegon knows how hard to push.

She never seems to remember anything afterward and Aegon smiles for her just so he can feel her warm little palm as it cups his face.

“Will you move into the Holdfast then? For me?” Aegon says, continuing in the same vein as though there’s been no interruption.

His mother shakes her head as though to clear it and pinches his cheek. 

“Aye, you devious little boy. You’ll need to send someone for my things.”

Aegon nods and looks toward his mother’s closed doors. Outside of them, he must protect his City. His mother looks at him strangely as he bends to hug her once more. 

-

Jon

301 AC

As if summoned from Jon’s very thoughts, Lord Stark appears from the shadows.

Jon’s hand comes round the hilt of his sword with a speed that would have Ser Arthur look at him with pride.

“I’m not your enemy, Your Grace,” Lord Stark says and Jon releases his weapon.

“Where might we speak in private?” Lord Stark says, and Jon can feel his eyebrows rising. 

“I’ll not be a part of any conspiracy against my Father or brother, my Lord,” Jon says as bravely as he dares. Jon has no doubt that Lord Stark could kill him in single-combat, green as he is, and the Lord must share his thoughts because a soft smile crosses his face before it disappears.

“Aye. I would not think it of you. The walls have ears. Your Master of Whispers is curiously absent, wouldn’t you say?” 

Jon rubs a hand across his face. Lord Varys is not found unless he wishes it and Jon is unaccustomed to keeping track of all the cogs in the Crown’s regime.

Lord Stark’s eyes are soft and Jon figures that he means no harm.

“The White Sword Tower, my Lord. Ser Arthur’s rooms are there and he’s away on progress with my Father. The Kingsguard will be patrolling the city at my brother’s behest,” Jon says.

Lord Stark inclines his head. 

“After you, Your Grace.”

Jon does not know Lord Stark but he can’t help but feel that a man who would travel from the far reaches of the North to the deserts of Dorne in search for his younger sister is the best kind of man.

Jon has only been in the White Sword Tower a handful of times. The stairs are winding, with four floors. It was much too tall to climb as a child and when Ser Arthur was his only objective, it was easier to have the Lord Commander come to him.

The Round Room is the first they see when they enter. It smells like oak and steel, and it’s more impressive than Jon remembers.

It’s empty, just as he surmised.

The Lord Commander’s seat is at the head of the large weirwood table, black oak with blanched cowhide cushions. He recalls climbing onto Ser Arthur’s lap and slapping chubby fists down against the wood.

Lord Stark takes a look at the white wool hangings and the white shield and two crossed longswords mounted over the hearth.

“I’d like to avoid invading Ser Arthur’s privacy. If we stay in the Round Room we can hear anyone who enters before they are close enough to overhear our conversation.” Jon nods to himself, sitting down in one of the three seats that line either side of the table.

Lord Stark takes a seat across from him and observes Jon for a long moment.

Jon thinks Lord Stark can somehow tell that he’s touched Lady Sansa’s smooth skin, looked down at her brilliant eyes. 

He wasn’t expecting to come across her at all--the antechamber is far from the rooms she was provided, but there she was, atremble against some garish tapestry of Daemon Targaryen.

She looked near to fainting as Jon advanced and he can’t help but feel as though every time he encounters the Lady Stark, he corners her in fright.

Her hair was extraordinary, a few tendrils escaping to curl sweetly against her forehead. He’d wanted to touch--and he feels like Lord Stark knows.

When Lord Stark speaks, he does not mention his daughter at all.

“You told me that if you were your father, you’d cut off your enemy off at the east bank of the Rush.”

Jon nods cautiously.

“What if Lannister’s not going toward the Rush?”

Jon considers the route along the Goldroad. “Father isn’t at Highgarden, if he ever made it all. He’s probably turned back to the crownlands but he knows he can’t get here in time.” Jon pauses. “Lannister knows it too. He’ll have his men march with him along the Goldroad because that’s the straightest point.”

Jon thinks of sitting in the small council room with Ser Arthur, long after it had emptied.

“They’ll gather men from Deep Den and the major houses along the Riverroad.” Jon stops and then stands, knocking his chair backward.

“If they come, they’ll come from the west and from the north.”

Lord Stark eyes him speculatively. “Do you know how large the Lannister host was when Tywin Lannister commanded the army?”

“Some 50 thousand men strong,” Jon says, “but that was at the height of the Rebellion.”

“Your Grace,” Lord Stark says, “your father killed Tywin Lannister. He broke his knees and set him ablaze. He did Jaime Lannister the courtesy of beheading him with Blackfyre, but not until after he’d made him watch his father burn.”

“He married Cersei Lannister to House Manderly and effectively banished her to the North.”

Jon’s never heard Lord Stark speak so many words at once and he doesn’t seem inclined to stop now.

“He left Tyrion alive because your father is not the Mad King. He gave Tyrion Casterly Rock, his birthright, and a princess to wife.” Lord Stark drags a hand over his mouth as if the talking has cost him.

“What would you do, had one man come and killed your father and your brother, married your sister off and made sure you wed into the murderer’s family?”

Jon slumps in his chair.

“Aye. Tyrion Lannister waited eight and ten years, put a few babes in his wife’s belly to ensure his line and he’s going to destroy the Iron Throne or die in the attempt,” Lord Stark says.

“Your father knows the numbers but your father’s not here. Your father isn’t cutting anyone off. He’s not got the manpower.”

Jon stabs at a spot in the table where he imagines Casterly Rock.

“You’re right. I can see that now. And say Lannister’s got a host as great as all that. He wouldn’t try and march an army that large straight to the seven gates.”

Lord Stark smiles, a real smile, the one Lady Sansa receives whenever her father sees her.

“That, lad, is  _ why _ they’re not all headed toward the Rush.”

“It seems you’ve already come to the same conclusions, Lord Stark. You don’t need me.”

Lord Stark leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.

“You and your brother represent the Crown. More like you have no need of me, Your Grace.”

Jon laughs. “Aye. You are much like the Sword of the Morning, my lord,” Jon quips and Lord Stark’s face shutters closed.

Jon presses forward in thought, brow furrowed.

“If they’re to come from the north, they’ll have to pass Riverrun. Riverrun is loyal to the crown--and better yet--you, my lord.”

Jon thinks about Sansa’s fair skin and flaming hair and stands as close to Lord Stark as he dares.

Lord Stark rises.

“A raven to my father would be intercepted,” Jon thinks, pacing the length of the room. “Which means this is a decision we’ll have to make without him.”

“But I could meet Lannister’s northern contingent at the intersection between Riverroad and the Goldroad,” Jon pauses, his mouth downturned. “At the mouth of the Trident.”

Lord Stark’s face twists and he turns away.

“You and what army, lad,” he says gently, and Jon’s chest constricts.

“House Tully won’t let the Lannisters pass without a fight, though I can’t warn them myself. A raven can’t pass there,” Jon says, “but I  _ can _ get a raven to the Eyrie.”

Lord Stark’s brows raise and Jon feels a thrill.

“Your Lady Catelyn’s sister is Lady of the Eyrie. House Tully is still her house. She’s like to fight if they are,” Jon says.

“My Father also spared Jon Arryn his life,” Jon continues, and Lord Stark gives him a curt nod in response. 

“Aye. And he took Robert’s and all his brothers and named your Uncle Viserys Lord of Storm’s End.” 

Jon’s face pales. 

“What would you have done, my Lord? He left the last Lannister his head and now that same head marches to the Lion Gate. It’s like you said.”

Lord Stark shakes his own head, as if emerging from a memory.

“Send the blasted raven to the Eyrie. You and I will ride to the Trident.” Lord Stark pauses.

“Talk to your brother, Your Grace. He’s needed here, in the city, as your father’s heir.”

Lord Stark turns, swiftly taking his leave, and Jon falls into his vacated seat.

He sits and stares at whitewashed stone until the sun hangs low in the sky.

He’s still thinking about the way Lady Stark had looked framed in the light of high noon as he passes by his own rooms on the way to the Great Hall.

Aegon should be holding court there and while he’s not keen on explaining exactly what it is Jon plans to do to protect the capital, he would rather do it without an audience.

He’s nearing his destination when he hears a muffled sound coming from the other end of the corridor. He hurries toward it, patting his hip until he finds the hilt of his baselard. He can see the edge of a curtain trembling with movement and he slowly drags it away from the window.

It’s Lady Stark.

He’s seen her more times today than he has in the past month or so and here she is, her cheeks flushed with tears, nose pink and raw.

He takes her face in one palm and cradles it before he can stop himself.

She allows her chin to rest in the warmth of his hand and Jon bites down on his tongue.

“Didn’t I tell you that you mustn’t cry in front of me?”

She laughs and then hiccups and Jon cannot stop the strange, slow path his thumb takes across her cheek.

Her tears catch on the rough skin of his hand and she releases a trembling sigh.

“You’re riding to the Trident. That’s where they killed Lord Baratheon,” she whispers, her eyes glassy and bright. 

“I don’t want him to go there. I don’t-- It’s a bad omen. It’s cursed,” she says, and then she’s clutching to the hem of his doublet with small hands.

“Please don’t let him go, Your Grace. He’s the only one I have here. I don’t want him to die. I couldn’t bear it.” Jon’s fingers tighten reflexively and he feels her body collapse before she does.

“By the Gods,” he murmurs, scooping her up and glancing around the empty hall. The ladies are sequestered and the only other inhabitants would be in Aegon’s war council room or in their own. Jon doesn’t know where to take her that won’t be inappropriate.

“Would you like to go to the sept?” he finally asks, tongue clumsy in his mouth.

She takes a moment and nods, bright hair rubbing against his sternum.

_ Gods,  _ he thinks once more, abruptly and intimately familiar with the weight of her slender body in his arms. 

He wonders if he should take her directly to her father instead. 

To Aegon.

The sept is just before the Maidenvault, with its high windows and Seven altars. He knows that the Northmen worship the Old Gods but the closest weirwood tree is a table in the White Sword Tower and he can’t take her  _ there. _

He rests her on an elevated pew and keeps one hand supporting her back.

“Lady Sansa,” he begins, “I’m sorry I’ve touched you with such familiarity. I’ll never speak of it. You have to know that. I only thought that if you had fallen you would injure yourself.”

Jon pauses and rubs one thumb underneath her eye, catching a remaining tear.

“Please. Say something.”

Lady Stark looks up at him and rubs her hands together nervously.

“That’s the first time you’ve said my name, Your Grace.”

Jon’s struck dumb looking down at her, the soft curls framing her cheeks, and he realizes that he’s in a great deal of trouble.

“You must think me slattern,” she whispers, burying her face in her palms.

“What? No. No, my lady. If anyone is inappropriate, it has been me. I’ve touched you--your skin without permission.” Jon takes a deep breath and makes to leave. 

“I’ll not bother you further, Lady Stark.”

She gives a tremulous laugh and looks up at him.

“I didn’t mind it,” she says, and then her face bursts into more vibrant color than it had held even when she first began to cry.

“I mean to say, it--it wasn’t untoward. Gods. Mayhap you should leave me here indefinitely for the Stranger to find,” she says and Jon can’t help but laugh.

“Aye. He’d come and take me first.” 

She smiles prettily, her nose scrunched up in her face and Jon thinks seriously about praying after all.

“Lord Stark is not like to listen to me, my lady. I’d gladly ride north alone, but neither Egg nor your father would be especially pleased.”

“I only wish there was no more killing. Father won’t talk about Robert’s Rebellion. Everyone is dead now and it’s happening all over again,” Sansa says, arranging her cream colored gown across her knees.

“Don’t wish my death upon me quite so soon, my lady,” Jon teases, if only to see the tip of her mouth when she smiles. “I want to stop all that. But we’ve got to go away to do it.”

“I don’t want to kill a man. Good men died all over Westeros so I could be here.” Jon bends down so he can sit next to her, his knees so wide they encompass half the pew and a third of her skirts.

Sansa looks horrified, moving closer to him in concern.

“You didn’t! You couldn’t, Jon. How are you to apologize for a life you didn’t ask for?”

Jon lets out a sigh and crooks a half-smile at her. “Now you’ve said my name too, Lady Sansa.”

She laughs, pulling some of that lovely color back into her face. “I would apologize but it seems we’re squared away.”

Her mouth downturns in a stern little line as she picks at a loose thread on her gown. It's burnished gold in the waning light, leading up into the gnarled roots of what resembles a tree.

“Did you make this?”

She nods happily, her eyes shining. “I always do. Mother taught me. Arya is no good with a needle but I’ve been working on a little winter cap with direwolves for her.”

Jon takes her hand, the one fumbling with the thread, and she blushes again. “You mustn’t distract me, Your Grace. I meant what I said.”

“And what did you say,” Jon says, tipping her head up to meet his eyes.

He’d make her turn that delightful color for all time if he could. 

“Men will always die. You shouldn’t--shouldn’t line up to pay penance. You’re good. I don’t know everything about you, but I know that.” Sansa shudders out a little sigh and Jon moves away, his breeches soundless against well-oiled wood. He can’t be any closer to her, not like this.

“It’s you who are good. You, who would sit here with me when this is about you.”

Sansa makes a confused moue and then nods, holding out her small hand. Jon takes it, stupidly, hopelessly drawn to it.

“Alright. If it’s about me, promise me then. Promise me you’ll tell me what’s happening. S-Send me a raven. Anything.” Jon nods, rubbing little circles onto her knuckles as they shake on it.

“As long as it’s in my power, my lady.” 

“You aren’t allowed to forget. I’ll hunt you down.” Sansa claps her free hand over her mouth and Jon’s pleased to realize he’d anticipated the move. She seems to do so whenever she’s said something unintentionally.

“That’s not. Not a  _ threat,  _ Your Grace,” she whispers, falling back onto propriety, and Jon laughs, full-bodied.

“Aye, you’re a sweet little thing, aren’t you?” 

He refuses to take the words back and Sansa shyly ducks her head. Jon looks at her hair for a moment before turning his face upward. The godswood is just outside of the sept and he can see the first stars twinkling at the edge of the sky

“Would you like to stay here before bed? I’ll make sure a goldcloak is available to escort you back to Maegor’s Holdfast, if you like.” Jon wants to tip her chin up again so he can see into clear blue eyes, but he refrains and she shakes her head.

“No, I think I’ll explore for a bit. It’s so crowded in the Keep. My sister would always get into great big messes and I would have to look all over in order to find her.”

Jon resists the urge to remain, if only to speak with her further. 

“I’ll see you on the morrow, then,” he says, and when she finally looks up, she graces him with a smile.

-

Sansa

301 AC

Sansa has never seen pictures of the Queen’s Ballroom.

She thinks about what will happen in here once she’s Queen. She’s not let herself believe that this is her destiny. When schoolchildren take their lessons, she’ll be listed on the pages.

_ Queen Sansa of House Targaryen _

That is, if there’s a House Targaryen at all by the time siege is over. She bites her lip until it’s practically aching. Her eyes are still unattractively swollen and she  _ knows  _ how red her cheeks become when she’s been crying.

She supposes she should be happy that it was only Prince Jon who found her but it had only made her cry harder in the moment.

It’s him who saw her shivering like a foolish little girl behind a curtain, of all things. She couldn’t figure out the way back to Maegor’s Holdfast and Father had told her the awful news and she was going to have a good cry about it all when he came along.

She can’t believe she’d demanded he  _ write  _ her. Her! 

She knows Father won’t think of it and Prince Jon’s been so kind to her every time he sees her--even if she is making an arse of herself in every instance.

She thinks about the way he’d touched her face and then carried her. She’d felt so warm--and it had been the closest she’d ever been to a man’s body.

_ He’s strong,  _ she thinks, cheeks pinking in residual embarrassment.

Arya’s grey eyes would be so wide if Sansa could tell her. She’d probably be sick. 

She feels a little silly about it all, and sillier still when she hears footsteps approaching while she’s reminiscing.

She’s unused to being cooped up inside all the time and wanted to explore before it becomes paramount that the ladies stay in greater Maegor’s Holdfast.

“Who’s down here?”

The voice carries, booming through the small space, and Sansa makes a noise like a mouse.

The face that comes into view does not alleviate any worry. The last time she heard him, he said a terrible thing to his younger brother.

He looks subdued now, his face drawn. Prince Aegon softens at the sight of her.

“Are you lost? You should be with the other ladies,” he says gently, extending a hand.

“I wanted to see the space,” she shyly says, and Prince Aegon smiles.

“It’s smaller than the Tower of the Hand, if you can believe it.” Sansa nods, admiring the beaten silver mirrors.

“It must look lovely when the sconces brighten the torchlight,” she says, gesturing to the carved walls.

“Not as lovely as you, my bride,” Prince Aegon says and Sansa can feel the tips of her ears turning red.

“Not at the moment, Your Grace,” Sansa says, looking at the dirt on the hem of her gown. It was pretty at the beginning of the day, a soft cream that complemented her skin. Now she’s sure to have cobwebs on her person.

“Have I not eyes?” the prince says and Sansa smiles to herself. 

“I’ll walk you back to Maegor’s,” he says and Sansa takes a last, wistful look around. 

“It’s dark out here. Should you need a torch, my men will bring you one,” Aegon says, taking her by the arm.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Aegon.”

Sansa blinks up at him, momentarily dumb.

“I’d like you to call me Aegon,” he repeats, a lock of silver falling over his eyes. He’s staring down at her so sweetly that Sansa feels lightheaded.

“I’ll most likely call you by your title before it becomes a habit,” she warns and Aegon laughs and it feels very intimate as he guides her back to the inner chambers.

“I’ll correct you as often as needed, my lady,” Aegon says, depositing her just inside of the ladies’ rooms.

Sansa can hear the warmth of the chatter within, happy and undisturbed.

Torchlight flickers softly against the outer walls.

“Y--Aegon,” Sansa tries, and he smiles down at her.

“Are we truly in very much danger? Or is all of this--” she gestures around herself, “precautionary?”

Aegon looks pensive, the flames flickering against his pale hair.

“I will do everything I can to keep everyone in my Keep safe, my lady. Please, don’t trouble yourself about it.” He touches her elbow gently, just in keeping with the bounds of propriety.

Sansa grits her teeth before she can help herself.

“I will see you in the morn, then?” Sansa asks, and Aegon nods, titling his head toward the stairs. 

“I bid you sweet dreams, my lady,” he says, and then he’s gone, the tall line of him disappearing around the corner.

Sansa watches him go and grinds her fingers together, one by one.

-

Arthur

301 AC

Rhaegar is abed when he hears the sound.

He’s standing guard outside the King’s quarters, Lorent and his Lady Wife’s rooms. Rhaegar hates imposing, especially as he gave no advance notice, but if they’re to get to King’s Landing ahead of Lannister, they’ll need to take shelter where they find it.

Arthur can hear the men outside, still talking loudly despite the late hour. The smell of fire is high in the air and it wafts through the open window. A slant of moonlight peeks in through darkened curtains.

He listens to the masses for another moment before unsheathing Dawn and thrusting out into the darkness to grab the intruder by the neck.

His hand is unerring, and the body is slim and frail under his hand. When he drags it to the light he sees heavy black hair and dark lashes and he releases her with a grunt of surprise.

“Princess,” he hisses, “by the Seven--what are you doing here? Are you alone?”

Arthur is sick to his stomach to have touched her so, but he cups the back of her head in his palm regardless and brings her close to his body so they might share warmth.

The Princess looks worse for the wear, eyes sunken in her head and twigs in her hair.

“I’ve been riding for over two weeks,” she gasps, and Arthur shrugs out of his cloak so he can cover her in it.

“I’ve stopped only to sleep,” she adds, and Arthur hisses under his breath.

“Your brothers?”

“I left under cover of night. Egg would’ve barred the Keep and Jon would’ve insisted on riding out with me because he’s always known that I’m too stubborn to outmaneuver.”

Arthur laughs and presses his forehead to hers in relief.

“Why did you come? What if you’d missed us? We’ve only just arrived to Tumbleton.”

“I was counting on that,” Rhaenys says, licking dry lips.

“Jon’s been telling me what the small council says after every meeting. Egg would hate it but Jon knows I want to know. He and Lord Stark have ridden to meet with the Knights of the Vale at the Trident.”

Ser Arthur raises his brows.

“Jon’s always been best at sums. You always took him and Egg on progress when they were younger. Jon never thought you made it to Highgarden before the raven came. You’ve been retreating, haven’t you?”

Ser Arthur makes to speak but Rhaenys silences him with a look.

“They’ve still got two weeks to go; we left the same night, though Jon doesn’t know it. We’ve sent a raven to Storm’s End.” Rhaenys pauses and sways in place.

“Seven,” Arthur mutters, bracing her by the elbows.

“Jon says that Lannister’s men from Deep Den will besiege the city, there’s no way around that,” she blinks slowly and Arthur bends down to meet her eyes, hand supporting the small of her back.

“Quickly. What else did your brother say?”

“You and Father know you haven’t got the men to engage Lannister’s host. You do have few enough men to beat them to King’s Landing, though. ” Rhaenys is speaking from memory, eyes closed as she attempts to recall every word Jon must have drilled into her.

Arthur feels a heat in his chest when he thinks about Jon figuring out Rhaegar’s plans with that distinct furrow in his brow. The warmth spreads when he looks down at Rhaenys, the simple joy at her success and the paleness of her skin. The resemblance to her mother is striking.

“Jon says that he’s spoken to Lord Stark. He wants Father to know that he and Lord Stark will help the Eyrie maintain a defensive position.” 

She pauses and he sees a glimmer of her usual good humor peek through her exhaustion. “Not that he knew I would be available to deliver his exact message.”

Arthur remembers when Rhaenys was little, when King Aerys had kept her, Aegon, and Queen Elia at King’s Landing before the battle of the Trident, just because he could. Out of cruelty. The old bastard hadn’t even wanted to hold her when she was born.

Arthur wonders how much she remembers from before, when she was young and sweet. Dragonblood turns them all to stone, one at a time.

“I’ll wake your father and have Lord Footly’s servants get you some food and a wash,” Arthur says, picking her up the way he used to when she was a child.

“Why would you do something so dangerous,” Arthur can’t help but ask, even as she curls her arms around his neck.

“Do you know what I would’ve done if you’d been harmed? Violated? It’s been a long time since Dawn has killed a man in righteous anger.”

The princess lifts her head, eyes heavy-lidded. She looks softer than she has any right to, and Arthur walks her to the chaise in the corner of the antechamber, pushing it away from a stool with his knee.

“What would you have done?” Princess Rhaenys asks softly, and Arthur grunts under his breath.

“If the Gods serve any luck I’ll never have reason to tell you.”

Her head falls forward again and Arthur can tell that she’s too weary to uphold her end of the banter.

As he places her sleeping body against the cushions, he heaves a great sigh.

_ Why now,  _ he thinks.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys. i am crazy doing graduate school stuff (i won't bore you with the details) but i'm deadass. your comments give me so much happiness.  
> i'm no longer that dog from that meme where everything is on fire and i'm insisting it's fine.  
> this chapter was thick af because everybody decided they needed to have feelings and idk what to tell y'all.  
> ugh. if you're so inclined, i could use more existential joy fam


	5. Chapter 5

-

Aegon

301 AC

Lydden’s men have been spotted from the ramparts. They’re half a day’s walk from the capital and Aegon resists the urge to pull his hair out from the roots.

“Have you heard from my uncle,” Aegon asks Lord Baelor, even as the man averts his gaze. “No, Your Grace. He’ll need to ride hard to get here so that he can break the siege as quickly as possible.”

Lord Baelor eyes him speculatively and Aegon stands, knocking his plate onto the floor. The ladies further down the table look up warily.

Lady Sansa glances over at him and then back to her own meal, a dish of hotcakes drizzled with honey from the Reach.

Aegon feels abruptly ashamed. His mother dines in her own apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast and she’d be appalled to see his behavior.

It won’t be long until they can no longer go outside, and Sansa’s beginning to look pale, long lashes sweeping against porcelain skin.

 _Gods, she’s beautiful,_ he thinks.

“Lady Sansa,” he calls, and she glances up with wide eyes.

“Y-Your Grace?”

He longs to hear her call him Aegon again but she hasn’t done so since the night he escorted her back to the women’s chambers.

“Would you like to go on a walk with me?”

Baelor looks ready to interject but Aegon levels him with a hot glare before the man can get a word out.

Aegon has been locked in the war room since Rhaenys disappeared in the cover of night and Jon and Lord Stark left for the Trident.

He’d punched his brother clean across the jaw when Jon had told him of the plan. His knuckles still carry a ghost of the pain. It was the first time they’d fought since children.

Jon hadn’t dodged the blow, even though Aegon had deliberately telegraphed the swing.

“I won’t have it,” Aegon said, one hand pulling at his hair. “And where was I, when you and Lord Stark were making plans? Embroidering? On the shitter?”

Lord Stark was expressionless but Jon had rubbed at his face, jaw tight.

“We _told_ you. We told you two weeks past. Deep Den will besiege the city. They’ve had a head start and time on their side. Father won’t return and leave King’s Landing open to aid from Casterly Rock,” Jon said.

“Either Marbrand or Lefford’s men will take Riverrun and they’ll send the second host to aid the siege if the Eyrie doesn’t defeat them at the Trident,” Jon added, face drawn.

“There’s no other way, brother.”

Aegon’s chest tightened and he’d grabbed Jon by the shoulder, fingers dug into muscle.

“So you thought you’d ride out and save the world, as we played when we were children?” Aegon said, and he knows he’s being nasty and cruel but he can’t stand the look Jon gives him, something sorrowful and warm all at once.

“I can’t stay, Egg. I can’t. What would that make me, if I stayed in the Red Keep while better men fought for my right to do so?”

Aegon’s face twisted and Jon must’ve seen something in it because he stepped backward.

“And what does that make me, Jon?”

Jon rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“A King,” Jon said.

That’s the last that Aegon had said to his brother.

Now Lady Sansa looks terrified of him, as though he plans to take her and throw her off of a parapet.

“Please, my lady, I’m like to lose my wits without the pleasure of your company.”

Lady Sansa nods slowly and he comes around to her chair and offers her his arm.

“Would you like to walk in the gardens? I know you’ve probably seen them quite often but my mother used to tend them,” he says, guiding Lady Sansa by her arm, “before she grew ill.”

Lady Sansa’s hair is done in an elaborate braid and it allows him to see the apples of her cheeks.

It’s astonishing, really, that she’s to be all his. He wonders what she will look like, porcelain skin nude on his bed, the soft roundness of her breasts against his chest.

“My sister used to tend to her own plot when she was younger. She stopped when she was around your age, mayhap,” Aegon says, coming to the sheltered patio before the gardens expand outside the Keep.

Lady Sansa twists at the fabric of her gown.

“I love her, and she took not a single guard when she disappeared. It’s a two week journey to Tumbleton, and that is with a spare horse,” he says, and the Lady Sansa makes a noise that sounds like the beginning of tears.

“I’ve frightened you,” he says, and that serves to make her cry harder. When she looks up at him he can only wonder how a woman can be so beautiful even as she weeps.

“You’re fragile and now I’ve upset you. It’s good that my siblings have left me here,” he teases, even as the words catch in his throat.

“Not fragile, Your Grace,” Lady Sansa says, and he draws her hand up to his mouth so he can press a kiss to it.

He longs to hear her say Aegon again, wants to hear the way her northern accent caresses the soft A in his name.

“The princess asked me to tell you that she loves you very much,” she says, wiping gently at her face.

Aegon grows cold, pausing next to a bed of dragon’s breath, their petals blood red in the waning light.

“What did you know of this?”

Lady Sansa trembles, looking up at him.

“Know of what, Your Grace? I only tell you the message she gave to me a few weeks before her departure,” she says, her voice steady despite tears. “I think she meant for me to wait until after she was gone.”

Aegon grabs her by the wrist, his temper flaring in his bones. He can see it now, his sister and brother, laughing at Aegon the way they had when he was younger and couldn’t quite keep up with their games.

Choosing to go and find a dragon’s glory in a world where he cannot follow.

Lady Sansa makes a pained sound in his grasp and Aegon looks down on her mane of fire.

“You knew she planned to leave? And yet you said nothing?” Aegon shakes her, just a bit, and Lady Sansa’s face pales past the smooth cream of her usual pallor.

“She refused to tell me her plans, Your Grace. She only said that she was to do something foolish and that I should tell you of her love,” Lady Sansa says, pulling at his grip.

“You’re hurting me, Your Grace,” she says and Aegon drops her arm in horror.

“I mean you no harm, my lady,” Aegon says, but even he can see that the damage is done. Lady Sansa holds her wrist stiffly and to the side, but her eyes are clear and hard upon his.

“I’ve acted dishonorably,” he says, leaning down to pluck the red flower from the earth. It’s beautiful, a compliment to her hair.

“You must know that this isn’t me,” he says, and Lady Sansa looks down at the flower in his grasp.

“Sansa, please,” he says, and her ears color prettily as she looks up at the familiar.

“It’s the danger. I can’t control anything from inside the Keep and nor can I fight alongside my father. I’m frightened that my sister has been violated or killed and my brother--” Aegon almost crushes the black stem of the dragon’s breath in his fist.

“And you,” he says, coming a step closer to her, “you, who are nothing but kind and sweet and _good_ \--”

She places her hand over his and takes the flower, tucking it behind her ear with a little flourish that would make him laugh were he not near tears.

“I may join the Silent Sisters if you make me out to be anymore virtuous,” Lady Sansa says, squeezing at his hand.

“They’ve both gone because it’s greater than you and I,” she says, and Aegon nods like a greenboy.

“Jon said--Jon said something of the sort before he left,” he says, and she stiffens in his grasp.

“Thank you for the flower,” she says gently, and Aegon wants to kiss her, cradle her small face in both hands and kiss her senseless for understanding what only his mother has ever heard before.

Before he can do something so foolish he hears a violent sound, not unlike the smashing of stone against stone. Sansa rears backward at the noise, stumbling before Aegon reaches out to break her fall.

“They’ve begun. They’ll be using catapults, which will sound horrible but will remain far away,” he says, and he takes her hand, interlocking their fingers.

“Make to the Holdfast with haste,” Aegon says, and he expects her to cry, clinging to him as she did before, but she sweeps her skirts into a fist and nods, running for the center of the Keep.

Aegon stands for a moment and looks after her before he plucks his crown from his head.

-

Jon

301 AC

“It’s hotter than a Dornish noon,” Jon says as he takes the piss, the earth under him so hard-packed it remains undisturbed.

Lord Stark shakes himself dry and looks sideways at him with a hint of a smile.

“What know you of Dorne, lad?”

Jon likes that Lord Stark hasn’t called him Your Grace since he helped fell a dead tree for firewood some four days ago.

“I was born there,” Jon says unthinkingly, lacing up his breeches.

“Ser Arthur said I had not yet been suckled before he delivered me to my father. It was the heat that almost killed me,” Jon adds, and Lord Stark’s gaze is heavy upon him when he turns away from the tree.

“It was afire,” Lord Stark says carefully, and Jon can hardly breathe.

“The Dornishmen were loyal to your father; they fought valiantly for him at the Trident. My men and I had walked at length before we came upon the Tower,” Lord Stark laces his own breeches as though he had forgotten about them.

“What happened?”

Jon says it before he can talk himself out of it, so desperate for a piece of his mother from the only man to know her during life.

Jon walks over to his horse and begins to brush her down, bristles catching against the blood blisters on his palms.

He’d named her Vermithor, after the Conciliator’s dragon, and she shakes her white mane so that he has to dodge horsehair.

“Please,” Jon says, unaccustomed to begging but not too proud.

“If I’m to die on this journey, I’d like to know. Father won’t speak of her and Ser Arthur tells me the same story again and again and so I know of her death intimately. I could recite it from the grave.”

Lord Stark saddles his own horse and rubs his eyes against the brightness of the morning. They’ve got another fifteen miles to go before they can rest for the day.

“She was everyone’s favorite. Once you had her word, she wouldn’t turn back,” Lord Stark rubs his own horse down in brisk, economical movements.

“She was the only girl and we loved her.”

Lord Stark shoves his brush into his saddlebag and swings a leg up and over his horse.

Ice hangs from his left hip, broad and heavy.

“If we go five extra miles we’ll reach the Ivy Inn at dusk,” Lord Stark says, nudging at his horse’s flank.

Jon mounts Vermithor and holds his breath for more but none is forthcoming. If he pushes, he fears that will be the last he hears of his mother.

_And we loved her._

The words sit heavy and he turns them over and over again in his mind. He will never know her.

“Jon?”

Lord Stark’s face hasn’t changed but there’s something warmer in his voice when he calls for Jon’s attention.

“Sorry, my Lord,” he says, blinking away at the wetness of his eyes.

“What’s the Ivy Inn,” Jon answers belatedly, and Lord Stark grunts and guides his horse into a walk.

“It’s the last stop before you and I must make camp til the Trident.”

Jon thinks about sleeping outside, under the stars.

Ser Arthur had forced he and Aegon to do so when they were younger, teaching them how to strike flint and cut down wild game.

Ser Arthur had fostered in the North as a youth and Jon had liked the lessons better than Aegon. Aegon wanted to play at war and forced Jon to practice with him, day after day.

Now he wants Lord Stark to look at him as though he’s something to be proud of. As if he’s worth the wolf blood in his veins.

“Have you been?” Jon says, thankful that Lord Stark feels like indulging him.

Jon thought he was taciturn, but Lord Stark puts him to shame, rides hours at a gallop with nary a hair in his mouth.

“Aye. We stayed but a night to stable and rest the horses. Too many infantrymen,” he adds, flicking his reins.

“At least you know the way to the Trident,” Jon says, and Lord Stark surprises him with a laugh.

“Aye. That I do.”

The rest of the day passes in silence and Jon has never ridden so many consecutive miles in his life. He can feel the ache in his hips and his back but there’s nothing to be done for it.

They’ve sent a raven to the Eyrie and Lord Arryn had written back that he would gather his men and meet at the mouth of the Trident.

His father had spared Lord Arryn, as he had no heirs until after he returned from war.

Now Lord Stark and Lord Arryn are to meet again at the same place where Jon’s father slew their best friend.

The men say Lord Baratheon swung his warhammer into father’s chest and knocked the rubies from his breastplate; they were scattered across the ford and drowned.

Father used Lord Baratheon’s own warhammer to kill him, bludgeoning his skull in a swing so violent it’s said that every man in proximity swallowed Lord Baratheon’s brains.

Lord Baratheon had loved Mother, Ser Arthur explained, and she was his betrothed. But it was Father who Mother loved, and when the two ran away together, Lord Baratheon believed it rape.

Jon thinks about the blood on his father’s hands and leans forward on Vermithor, urging her faster.

They reach the Ivy Inn as the moon is already twisting out into the night sky, burdened by clouds.

“There will be a heavy downpour tonight,” Lord Stark says, whistling at his horse.

Jon turns his head to look at the sky and nods his acknowledgment. The stablehands take the reins and Jon is reaching into his pocket to hand them each a gold dragon when Lord Stark stops him with a hand on his sleeve.

Lord Stark gives them a handful of silver stags instead and Jon follows him into the Inn, brow furrowed in confusion.

The Ivy Inn is cramped, packed with folks either on the way to Harrenhal or leaving it behind. The innkeeper is bustling from table to table, a broad man with a smile that’s missing several teeth. He wipes his hands on his stained apron once every few minutes, thick fingers passing over grease and blood.

Lord Stark pushes ahead of him, clapping his hands down against shoulders as he passes.

“Oi! Lookit the little lordling!” Jon hears and he can’t help the way his spine stiffens.

Lord Stark doesn’t stop and so Jon doesn’t either, staying closer than a babe at its mother’s skirts.

The innkeep looks up and his face splits into a grin when he sees who it is.

“M’lord Stark,” he says, swallowing up Lord Stark’s giant hand into his fleshy ones.

Lord Stark’s smile is warm and inviting and Jon wants to ask him where this demeanor is when Jon’s getting saddle sores across the hills past Hayford.

“No wars have you in my Inn, eh?” the innkeep says, and Lord Stark laughs.

“No wars. Have you a room for my friend and I? We’ll not remain long on your hospitality,” Lord Stark says, and the inkeep smiles again.

“Not long on my hospitality, he says,” the inkeep replies. “It’s here you and m’lord Robert stayed as boys.” He lowers his voice in a surprising amount of tact.

“It’s here you two stayed for the last time, too. Room’s yours. Small place, smaller than it seems with all these cunts about. I’ve only the one. Will the little lordling need a separate chamber?”

The inkeep laughs boisterously, releasing Lord Stark’s hand to look at Jon fully.

“He’s a tall one, that. M’lord…” he trails off, waiting helpfully for Jon to fill in his house name.

Lord Stark looks perturbed but Jon smiles the smile he gives Egg when he’s knocked him down into the dirt one too many times.

“Stokeworth,” Jon says, and the innkeep nods. “The House of lambs, aye.”

Jon becomes a fixture in the background, a boy, as he follows Lord Stark and the inkeep around the corner where it’s quieter.

“Bigger bathhouse since you were here last, m’lord,” the inkeep addresses Lord Stark as they come to the final room at the end of the hall.

The two exchange more pleasantries and the portly man leaves with a nod from them both.

Lord Stark deflates as soon as the door shuts behind them, unhooking Ice and leaning the greatsword against the wall closest to the hearth.

“The Ivy Inn’s a good spot for thieves,” Lord Stark sighs, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed.

“Lords come through from King’s Landing and get nicked easily. Keep your gold dragons for more savory parts.”

Jon feels small, smaller even than when Ser Arthur watches him rant and refuses to engage.

Lord Stark’s face softens in the silence.

“You’ve a quick head, Your Grace. You’re quick with figures and quicker with military moves,” he pauses.

“But your father is the King of the Seven Kingdoms. You can’t help but to be what you are.”

Jon places his own sword beside Lord Stark’s and nods.

“Egg--that is, Aegon, he’s meant to be King. He’ll have me as his Hand one day. I want to do right by him and the realm.”

Lord Stark runs a hand through his hair. “Aye. It’s not quite as easy as all that when it comes down to it.”

Jon reaches into the pocket of his breeches and fingers the scroll within.

“It’s idealistic, I know,” Jon says, and then, “I’m going to take the piss, I’ll not be long.”

Lord Stark waves a hand in his direction and Jon slips out of the door and back into the common room. There are new travelers coming through the doors and so he doesn’t garner any more unwanted attention.

There’s a serving girl clearing mugs of half-spilled ale and she deftly dodges a wandering hand as she stacks her tray.

Jon approaches, preemptively apologetic for bothering her but unwilling to seek out the inkeep.

“M’lord,” she says, curtsying poorly in his direction.

Her cheeks pink as she takes the measure of him, and Jon smiles disarmingly.

“Where do you keep your ravens, my lady?” Jon asks, and the blush deepens.

“I’m no lady, m’lord, but right past the stables. We got a fair few from King’s Landing’n Harrenhal,” she says, screeching as a man’s hand connects to her backside.

Jon’s blood warms at the sight. He’s always had trouble quelling his temper, the dragon’s blood, Ser Arthur would tell him if he were here, and he rises to his full height to glare down at the perpetrator.

The man’s in his cups but he shrinks away when he and Jon make eye contact.

The girl is motionless between them and then she’s thanking Jon hurriedly before she rushes off to finish her duties.

Jon doesn’t want to stay another second in this cramped little room and so he too leaves, breathing in the evening air.

There’s no Maester here, of course, but the Inn is the last place messages can be sent before Harrenhal, outside of a House seat.

The makeshift rookery is just beyond the Inn, squalid and compact. Ravens are uncommonly intelligent and they look at him now, organized by their origin.

There’s three ravens from King’s Landing, the girl spoke true.

Grand Maester Pycelle let he and Aegon play with the castle ravens as boys, or else he was too lazy to shoo them from his workspace.

The paper was small and Jon had written it by candlelight back at the Inn in Brindlewood. He’d sent a raven from there too, so Lady Sansa should receive two scrolls before it becomes impossible to communicate.

His last scroll makes him blush, and he ties it gently to the raven’s leg with twine, ignoring the slight squawk he receives for his troubles.

“Alright, alright,” Jon says as he cups the bird in his hands. He ducks his head underneath the awning that shelters the cages and looks up at the moon once more.

The raven is silent upon release.

-

Sansa

301 AC

 

Sansa can hear them crying in the streets.

The memory of it had kept her up for the first night and Wylla had asked the Maester for some dreamwine to numb her into sleep.

She feels out of sorts after she takes it and she thinks she’ll go stir crazy if she has to sit in the Holdfast another day.

“They’re being killed, Wylla,” Sansa says, even as the other girl works placidly on her needlework.

The torches are lit night and day, as Maegor the Cruel had built the walls twelve inches thick. You can’t hear the streets down here. You aren’t meant to hear anything at all.

Sansa knows that outside of the women’s quarters, the royal apartments are spacious and ornate, but she’s never wanted to see trees or breathe the air so much in her life.

Wylla’s hands shake as she stitches, neat rows that Sansa could do in her sleep.

“Are you listening?” Sansa says, tendrils of hair escaping onto her forehead.

“Aye,” Wylla hisses, “and there’s nothing we can do about any of it. You think I haven’t heard the little babes crying?”

Sansa’s ashamed. She puts one hand across Wylla’s in order to still her movements.

“I’ve been unfair. I’m sorry for that. I just feel helpless.”

Sansa pauses, brushing imaginary dirt from her green skirts.

“Mayhap we could get them some food? We always throw away so much in the evenings. Breads and hard cheeses. Things of that sort.”

Wylla looks up, her mouth in a thin line.

“But how would we get it to them, Sansa? The archers and the--the catapults and Gods know what else weaponry they have that we don’t know of.”

Sansa picks at her fingers, twisting them one by one.

“I want to do something.”

Wylla opens her mouth as though to speak and snaps it closed with a little sigh.

The other ladies are on various armchairs and lounges, sipping at Arbor Gold and laughing over some jape Lady Celtigar has just made.

The carpets are Myrish, splendid things of sunset gold and red three shades darker than Sansa’s hair. Even the plates must have cost hundreds of gold dragons and Sansa knows she has no cause to complain.

“Father’s doing something. He always said that the only time a man can be brave is when he’s afraid.” Sansa stands up, sweeping her skirts over one arm in a manner that would be indecent if she weren’t surrounded by womenfolk.

“Aegon’s gone too. He’s gone to defend the City with the Goldcloaks.”

Sansa’s next words are caught in her throat because she wants to mention Jon--good, kind, Jon who has sent her two scrolls, one of which she has yet to read.

Jon’s been riding for weeks and he’s still written her. He’s still kept his promise.

She thinks that maybe--maybe it’s a bit inappropriate to exchange letters with a man not her betrothed and she blushes crimson at the thought.

She doesn’t care.

That’s a falsehood; she does care, greatly. It’s not fair to Prince Aegon, who has done nothing but look after her while everyone else was called away.

It’s worse now that she’s seen what he’s written her--and that she’s memorized the words in case she has to burn the scroll by candlelight.

“They’re _men,_ Sansa. Have you another greatsword to match your father’s? A dagger, mayhap?”

Wylla’s voice rises in agitation and Sansa drops to her knees again and cups her friend’s face.

“No. I’ve gone and given you a right fright though, haven’t I?”

Wyalla pulls her head away with a small smile.

“You’re such a little thing. A _pretty_ thing. I’d not like to see you anywhere alone on the streets of King’s Landing.”

Sansa wants to scream but she _can’t._ She has to be graceful and sweet and kind and _good_ so she makes Aegon a lovely bride when he comes back to the Keep.

She suddenly wants to be alone.

She tells Wylla she’s gone to relieve herself and then leaves, Prince Jon’s scrolls fisted in her palm.

There’s no place to go except for the royal apartments and she’s not permitted there. Sansa paces for a moment and heads in that direction anyway.

It will be the chance for a walk before a knight of the Kingsguard rushes her back to the ladies’ rooms for her safety.

The incessant false firelight is for once a blessing, and Sansa unrolls the first scroll with trembling hands.

_Lady Sansa,_

_I confess, I find it strange to be writing to you. That’s not to say that I find you strange. Aye, I am a fool. You shouldn’t cover your mouth for thinking it._

Sansa’s face flushes pleasantly and she removes her hand. This is the first scroll, the one Prince Jon sent from Brindlewood.

_Have Lydden’s men besieged the city yet? I ask, knowing you can’t write to me and tell me of your answer. I like to imagine that you would. Your father is safe. He rides for hours with no sign of ache and here I am, a greenboy in the saddle though I have ridden all my life. I’ve had to fetch a larger scroll and re-copy this last for I fear I’ve too much to say to you. I would write you countless times if only to ensure that you never cried the way I saw you last. It was a terrible thing. Your eyes, like ice, wet and troubled. I can’t tell you why you affect me so. I am sending this from the Inn in Brindlewood. There is only one further and then there will be no more ravens unless we are successful at the Trident. If it please you, pray to the Old Gods and the New that we survive. I’m sure you already do so for your father, but if you could spare a prayer for me, I’d be grateful._

_Yours,_

_Jon_

Sansa memorized every line, stupidly, selfishly, and she managed to loiter around the rookery so that Grand Maester Pycelle could not open her scroll and read it beforehand.

She knows that old Maester Luwin would never, but Father told her that men played the game of intrigue in the capital and she must trust no one, especially when he’s left.

She has been holding on to the second one all day and it’s almost wrinkled in her warm fist.

She pauses under torchlight and unwraps it like a gift.

_Lady Sansa,_

_I must confess that am fearful for you. I wrote this last scroll at various points; when your father and I stopped to eat, or when we stopped to take care of natural needs. By now the men from Deep Den must be slinging stones and rocks over the ramparts and the archers must be defending the Seven Gates. Are you frightened? I don’t want you to find me inappropriate, speaking to you so intimately, but I’ve never had reason to write anyone the way I am now. That’s not entirely honest. It’s you that I want to be writing. I’ve come out and said it so boldly because if I die on the Trident I’d like you to know the truth of it. I’ve been the worst sort of man and a dishonorable brother, but I find you beautiful. The way your sweet hair curls on your forehead and the way you look up beneath your lashes when you’re excited. When you laugh. I’ve not been able to stop thinking of you since the day you allowed me to carry you to the sept. There are things that even the limits of my besmirched honor won’t allow me to write--but know that I am aware that nothing could come of this. If I see you again, I swear to never speak of it. In another life, I would say it to your sweet face, but I must admit that I’m craven and find this easier to bear. Alas, you did not ask me to write solely for my selfish benefit. Your father is well. He knows the way to the Trident by ear, it would seem. I must admit, I am frightened of what may come. The Sword of the Morning trained me all my life but I am scared I will be felled before I’ve had the chance to live. Worse still, that your father might find me lacking. Or you. The only pieces of my mother left and I could be worthless after all. I’ve run right up to the edge of this scroll and it’s the largest I can find._

_Yours,_

_Jon_

Sansa sinks to the floor dizzily, the scroll pressed to her breast.

She’s crying, she knows it, but no one has ever written her anything so lovely in all her life. She knows she’s beautiful--the northmen said it when she was born and everyone else since.

It’s difficult to stand, but she does so anyway, wiping her red eyes against her sleeves.

He’d signed it Jon--just Jon, without any of his titles. She says his name in her head until she feels brave enough to whisper it aloud to herself.

Jon, of House Targaryen.

She considers the careful way he said her name for the first time and how he genuinely asks her things and expects her opinion on them.

And now he’s afraid. He’s afraid that he’s going to die and never know any part of his mother at all and it makes Sansa sick to her stomach. She can’t imagine going her whole life without knowing anything about her own mother, about the Tullys, about any of it.

She wants to write him back. She’s going to write him back. And she’s going to give him her own letters when he returns, even if they’re never to speak of it again.

She’s still crying a bit when she hears a door open to her left, a creaking sound that screams of disuse.

“Hello? Is anyone out there?”

Sansa stiffens against the wall and realizes she’s illuminated by torchlight--there’s really nowhere to go.

It’s the Queen.

Or, maybe not the Queen. Sansa’s unsure if she still reserves the title after the annulment. No matter the case, Prince Aegon’s mother peeks her head around her door frame and her eyes light on Sansa instantly.

“Oh!” she says, and Sansa shoves the scroll into her pocket and sinks into the deep curtsy reserved for royalty.

“What are you doing out here, my dear?” the Queen says, and Sansa stammers, rising as she does.

“It’s so crowded in the Holdfast and with the siege none of us can go anywhere. I’m like to lose my wits, Your Grace,” Sansa says, and the Queen steps forward to look at her.

She’s a frail woman, her skin almost translucent against the orange tint of torchlight.

Sansa had been advised never to speak of her, not unless Prince Aegon allowed it.

She looks like Princess Rhaenys and Sansa thinks about how it must feel to not know where either of her children are.

“You look like one the Tullys of Riverrun,” the queen says, motioning to her own hair.

Sansa touches her head absently and nods.

“Aye, Your Grace. My mother is Lady Catelyn Stark, formerly of Riverrun.” Sansa pauses in dismay but the queen only smiles when she hears Sansa’s last name.

“Don’t worry so, child. Come, come inside. I’ve nothing against your House.”

The queen turns toward the interior of her rooms and Sansa follows, helpless to do anything else.

“I never wanted to be queen,” she says conspiratorially, and Sansa blinks in shock, closing the heavy door behind her.

“Your Grace?”

“Aye. Forgive me if I overtalk, I don’t often enjoy visitors. It’s hard for me, you see.”

Sansa looks around surreptitiously, scanning the room. Volantene tapestries adorn the walls, embedded with trademark silver thread. They say no two are alike.

It’s comfortable and warm, Sansa notes, taking stock of the books lining the bedside table.

“You’re to be Egg’s bride,” she says, and Sansa nods like a puppet on a string.

“Yes, Your Grace. I’m sorry that I haven’t been to see you--”

The queen laughs and it brightens her whole demeanor. She’s very lovely. Sansa can see Rhaenys in her.

“I knew Egg would bring you when he was ready. I’m not long for this world. There’s nothing to miss that I haven’t already,” the queen says, reaching out to pat Sansa’s hand.

“Your Grace, forgive me, I know you said you’ve no issue with my House, but how can you say that? How can you invite me into your chambers?” Sansa clasps her hands together so that wide sleeves cover them entirely, the picture of harmlessness.

“I did not love Rhaegar nor he me. He has made his bed and lost everything in the making. There’s nothing I can do to worsen that.”

Sansa is shocked at her candor, picking at her fingers from beneath linen.

“When you’re dying, naught else matters.”

Sansa wants to ask her so many things, most of them even farther past the bounds of propriety than what she’d asked at the outset.

“Prince Aegon’s out defending the city,” Sansa says, gracelessly steering them away from dangerous waters. She lowers herself to sit tentatively in a heavily brocaded armchair.

The queen’s face twists and she stumbles backward to land on the edge of her bed, skirts twisted haphazardly around her body.

“Are you alright, Your Grace?”

Sansa lunges forward in a panic but the queen only waves her hand dismissively, a light sheen of sweat dotting her brow.

“Were you unawares?” Sansa asks, pulling a kerchief out of her sleeve and offering it to the queen.

The queen takes it but does nothing besides clutch at the scrap of fabric, her eyes squinted closed.

“No...no, Egg would never go out and not tell me first. My babe. My little Egg.”

Sansa feels almost as though she’s intruding on an intimate moment but the queen continues to speak as though she’s not even in the room.

“Rhaenys doesn’t love me. Don’t make that noise,” the queen laughs, “she finds me weak and she doesn’t care to know me.”

Sansa grips the arms of her chair until her fingers are bone white.

“The Targaryen blood always wins out. Your children will be stronger than you in every way. They’ll want more than you know how to give them.”

The queen reaches behind her blindly for a pillow, using it to prop her back.

“They’re meant to ride dragons. What could a mother ever compare to that?”

It is silent for a long moment as the queen reclines, crossing palms over her breast. Her chest rises and falls with shallow movements and Sansa wants to hold her--or be held by her, anything.

“Eggy,” she says softly, and Sansa rises, perching down on the edge of the bed as though afraid of being cast off.

“Egg, darling. It’s always you who knows when to come and see me.”

Sansa touches two fingers to the queen’s palm and the queen’s hand flutters around the pressure, searching for grip.

“I’m tired now,” the queen says, and something about the air feels awful. The color bleeds from Sansa’s face and she feels the same way she did when she saw Grey Wind eat the live heart of a warm deer.

“I’m sorry, Eggy.”

Sansa rises so quickly she twists her ankle and drops to kneel next to the queen’s face.

“Your Grace?”

“Egg,” the queen murmurs and Sansa makes to stand.

She needs a Maester. Grand Maester Pycelle will never make it in time but perhaps Maester Lon or one of the others.

The queen’s hand spasms around her own and she wonders why no one warned her that the queen has such spells--does anyone know? Does Prince Aegon know?

She looks so pitiful that Sansa relents, tears in her eyes.

“I’m here, mother,” Sansa says and the queen opens her eyes with a sweet smile.

“I should have protected you and Rhae. I’m sorry I couldn’t. I’m sorry he kept us trapped.”

Sansa’s already shaking her head, tears streaming down her face.

“No, mother. It’s fine. You were always fine.”

The queen opens her mouth again and falls abruptly silent, eyes vacant.

Sansa quivers, back bowed over the queen’s prone form, and that feeling comes back, Grey Wind’s snout covered in blood and flesh, a little monster wearing beloved skin.

“Your Grace?” Sansa whispers, although she knows. She must know.

“Help,” Sansa says, and then, louder.

“Help!”

She needs a Maester--every Maester in the Keep, everyone who ever studied the healing arts.

She forgets that her ankle is swollen and runs to the door, throwing it wide.

Sansa’s skirts are so high you can see her calves and Lady Celtigar is screaming and it’s Wylla that pulls her to a halt with firm hands around her wrists.

“The Maesters! I need the Maesters! All of them,” Sansa says and Wylla’s hands are fumbling with her hair in an attempt to make her look less than a disaster.

“There’s no _time,_ Wylla!”

Lady Massey’s already returned with Pycelle; he’s close to the Holdfast for emergencies and Sansa turns to him immediately, grasping gnarled hands in her own.

“Please. Please. It’s the queen.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was so thique I had to save the rest for next chapter. there would've been too many reveals and y'all probably would've died of cardiac arrest (god forbid)
> 
> Hey guys, I want this to be a safe space so I think I’m gonna have to put on comment moderation so that it doesn’t get combative in an arena that’s meant to instigate camaraderie and creativity. All of your comments help me write and make me feel as though all of this is worth it but I don’t want this to become problematic.


	6. Chapter 6

-

Arthur

301 AC

“What, exactly, did you think you would do once you got here, Rhaenys?” Rhaegar says, his daughter staring up at him with matching ferocity.

“We couldn’t risk a raven. Aegon doesn’t know where I’ve gone and neither does Jon.”

Arthur drives the post deeper into the soft earth, signalling for Wyman and Bale to sling the tarp over the top to secure the tent.

“Then you leave it be, Rhaenys!”

The princess recoils as though slapped. “My apologies. I didn’t want my father to be slain due to ignorance.”

Rhaegar turns his head to the sky as though praying for strength.

The heat of the midday is unforgiving and the area is beginning to smell of sweat and feces.

There’s nothing for it, it’s empty land and they’ll need to move quickly to add to Prince Viserys’ host.

“Rhaenys. Now that you’re here I’ll be dividing my attention between you and the men. There are only a thousand of us. Do you understand how we’ll need to move so that we sneak ahead of Casterly Rock and back into the city?”

Rhaenys opens her mouth but her father looms and she shrinks like a moonbloom before the dawn.

Arthur’s never seen Rhaenys cower before any but Rhaegar and he thinks this is what it must mean to be a King.

“We could die. All of us, slewed by Lannister, whether he’s split his host or sends it straight to the dragon’s mouth. I can’t _protect_ you here.”

Rhaenys readies herself to argue, and Arthur already knows she’ll lament the idea that she needs to be protected.

Something in Rhaegar seems to soften, maybe it’s that he sees too much of himself in his daughter.

Arthur looks at them with the impartiality of a friend and he can see that Rhaenys is everything that Rhaegar fears about himself.

She’s wearing Prince Aegon’s riding leathers and one of Prince Jon’s fur-lined coats, presumably for the colder summer evenings.

The saddlebag that she packed is bulging, as it contains whatever supplies she was using to sleep on.

Arthur hopes she kept her dagger in the bag as well. He hadn’t been allotted enough time to train her and certainly not with the caliber of her brothers, but she’s more properly able to defend herself than any highborn lady that Arthur knows--and it’s still not enough to protect her against bandits.

Rhaegar runs a hand over her head, pressing down into the crown.

She wiggles under the movement before stilling, the same way she used to do as a babe.

She was a restless thing and when Aegon and Jon were two and one, respectively, she used to kick them so often that she was only allowed to wear slippers until she grew out of the unfortunate habit.

The only thing to calm her was sitting on Rhaegar’s lap as he sat on council and received visitors.

Aegon preferred his mother’s hand and Jon would sit perched on one of Rhaegar’s knees, chubby fist carefully wrapped around the closest hilt he could reach.

“I need you to promise me,” Rhaegar says, “that you’ll listen to me when the time comes.”

Rhaenys sniffs, tossing her dark hair over one shoulder.

“I always do. I like to argue, Father, and you like arguing with me.”

Rhaegar smiles, tucking a curl behind her ear.

“Aye. That’s so. But I need no arguing this time. Can you promise me that?”

Rhaenys looks so young in the moment that Arthur looks away, scanning the men as they untuck their bedrolls and rub their horses dry of the day’s sweat.

The sun is already setting and Arthur laughs inwardly when he realizes that Rhaenys will get a taste of the war she’s always after.

It’s unpleasant and often smelly and she’ll be even more heavily guarded than she is at the Keep because she’s the only woman for miles and sometimes the men have more balls than sense.

“I promise,” she says, and Rhaegar bends to press a kiss to her forehead.

“There’s water in the tent. We’re another days’ ride to the Rush and you’ll be able to bathe there. Ser Arthur will stand guard and the men value their heads. The both of them.”

Rhaenys colors, actually blushes, and Arthur’s surprised to find that it’s beautiful, crimson against the hue of her hair.

“Yes. Well, these leathers are chafing and Aegon’s waist is trimmer than Jon’s but Jon’s shoulders are broader and I’ve become exceedingly uncomfortable.”

She ducks into the large tent reserved for the King without further word and Rhaegar’s good humor disappears almost as quickly as she does.

“Viserys will have a host some thirty thousand strong. We repaired the water supply in the city years ago; it should more than withstand Lydden’s men.”

Arthur nods, resting one hand on Dawn’s hilt.

“And when the time comes to secure the Princess?”

“The children know of the passages. Aegon was frightened of them as a child and Jon too poor a liar to travel them in secret but Rhaenys could not have snuck from the Keep without using one. There’s a tunnel that leads from the bottom of Aegon’s Hill to the Holdfast.”

Rhaegar sighs and Arthur looks at his best friend and wonders when they became old.

“I’ve no doubt that she can run back to the Red Keep. It’s the getting her inside the City walls that troubles me.”

Arthur leans forward to poke a bit at a dying fire, grunting in acknowledgment when a son of Lord Rykker offers the King a section of meat.

“We’ll send her in with fifty goldcloaks if need be. She’ll not come to harm, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar makes a dismissive noise and rubs at crease of his forehead.

“Am I yet witless, Arthur? My children have enfeebled me. My heir, who thinks with his heart more than his mind, my boy Jon who believes he has neither, and my little girl who only allows me to hold her if she thinks it brings her closer to power.” Rhaegar laughs and looks around suddenly, arms raised.

“Who has not yet drunk through their flagon of sweetwine? One of you might yet be frugal!”

Arthur claps his palm down on Rhaegar’s shoulder and a cheer rises from the assembled, raucous in its intensity.

“Aye, Your Grace! Sunglass cannot hold his drink, you know old Lord Guncer never let him learn to try!”

Arthur can’t remember the boy’s name but he knows he’s one of Guncer’s youngest, a broad-shouldered lad who was knighted a year past.

He’s a sweet face, the kind they compose songs about, and the boy is flushed as he brandishes his flagon like a cask of gold dragons.

Rhaegar has always loved and hated crowds, but he adores his men. He’s at his most alive in the field and Arthur can’t discourage it.

Rhaegar was always Arthur’s dearest friend.

Rhaegar always had more to spare.

“Tonight we drink, then! For tomorrow we must travel with less rest and more saddle sores!”

The men are laughing again and they swallow Rhaegar whole, his silvered head peeking above a sea of brown and blonde.

Arthur turns back to the King’s tent and remembers to rap his knuckle against a supporting beam just in time.

“Your Grace? I’ve come to set my cloak down before I put up my tent.”

The princess grants him entry and he pulls back the blood-red of House Targaryen and walks inside, gaze lowered to the clasps on his breastplate.

“My apologies if I’ve disturbed you, princess,” Arthur fusses and Princess Rhaenys’ fingers come up to undo the buckles herself.

They’re slim and delicate against the black of his armor and he can see that her hands are red and raw in some places.

“Gods,” Arthur says, catching one in his hand before he can think.

“You’ve ridden for two weeks with no gloves, is that it? Haven’t I taught you better than that?”

She jerks her hand away and Arthur meets her eyes before his gaze travels the rest of her body.

She’s wearing one of Rhaegar’s cloaks, and she swims in it. It brushes against the floor and threatens to tangle in her feet. She’s holding it closed with her free hand and her hair has been brushed--it falls in soft waves down her back.

“This is indecent,” Arthur says, backing away so quickly that Dawn stabs awkwardly into his side.

“I heard what father said to you,” she says, stepping closer to him so he can hear her lowered voice.

Arthur bumps into the map desk, knocking the Storm’s End piece to its side.

“Am I that cruel? Has father thought me so heartless all this time?”

Her voice brings Arthur to a standstill.

“What do you mean, princess?”

Rhaenys shakes her head and that silken hair spills down her shoulders to rest against her collarbone.

“I’m no winter rose like Lady Stark of Winterfell. There will be no songs composed about my beauty and my stitching is poor at best. Yes, yes, I fight with Jon and Egg but they’re my brothers, don’t you see? They’re mine to take the piss out of and to punch and to love, yes, and Egg’s always been mother’s favorite and I wanted father. I can admit it. Father’s always loved Jon best and needs Egg the most and he understands them. He doesn’t know me.”

Arthur can’t tell which of them is breathing more heavily but Arthur closes the space between them against his better judgment.

“Rhaegar loves you. He. He never understood women. Princess Daenerys was born when Rhaegar was a man of twenty and five. He already had you before he ever knew what it meant to have a sister. She lived with your uncle and then your father wed her off. He doesn’t know how to know you,” Arthur says, “especially when you refuse to act the lady.”

He’s gently teasing and Rhaenys ducks her head with a half-smile.

“I want to be a lady,” Rhaenys says lowly, and Arthur shudders at the sound. “But I’m the blood of the dragon before any of that.”

“Do you think me a lady, Ser Arthur?”

Arthur looks into her honeyed eyes and cringes as the men begin to sing ‘The bear and the maiden fair’, as though on command.

“I was there when your mother birthed you, Your Grace. I have had you throned upon my knee at supper and tucked you into bed at night.”

Rhaenys advances like the red viper in her blood and Arthur thinks he’s never been so truly disarmed in all his life.

“Your Grace. I’m old enough to be your father.”

Rhaenys laughs, and it’s a high, sweet note, far sweeter than a girl as dangerous as she has a right to be.

“But we’ve spent so much time discussing my father.”

“I’m sworn to the King, Your Grace. I swore I would father no children and take no wife. I swore to never harm a member of the royal family.” Rhaenys is so close he could count her lashes and his body responds, he’s not yet a dead man.

“My father has seen to it that I’m no wife, Arthur,” she says, rising onto her toes to seal her lips against his.

It’s heady, the first touch of skin in years. Rhaegar never cared for the maintenance of vows of celibacy; Arthur and he often traveled to Lys and slept with women, more so in the days of their troublesome youth. But there’s something so sweet about her taste, the press of small tits against his body.

He can’t feel them through the armor but he knows the pressure and weight of a breast and he longs to cup them now, to squeeze one of her surely pink nipples in between a finger and thumb.

She’s a maid, of that he’s certain. Rhaenys would never risk her maidenhead and yet she kisses like the Stranger come to take his soul.

Arthur fists a hand into her hair and drags her closer, suddenly intimately aware of how much bigger than her he is, the bulk of his brawn against her figure.

She lets out a broken little sound, so delicate and unlike herself that Arthur drags himself away, hands still buried in black.

Her color is too high and her eyelashes are wet.

Objectively, she’s always been a beauty, with traditional Targaryen features and dark coloring, but she’s especially lovely now, with pink running down her neck and beneath Rhaegar’s cloak.

“Are you...bare?" Arthur asks, and she smiles up at him.

“Would you like to find out?”

Arthur curses under his breath and trembles as he holds her at arm’s length.

“Seven, princess, your father is my closest friend and my King. Please. I won’t be able to say no to you. I never have.”

She smiles gently, as though remembering all the times she’d bent Arthur to her will in years past.

“Don’t say no then. I want to give this to you,” she blushes, so beautifully young in the moment that it breaks his heart, “before I have to give myself away. Before I have to watch you and father rush into danger.”

She pulls away the top of her cloak and Arthur watches, transfixed, as the upper swell of her breast comes into view, a soft peak that hardens him in his breeches.

“Tonight?”

Arthur closes his eyes.

“Rhaenys.”

When he opens them, she is close enough to kiss, and so he does.

-

Aegon

301 AC

It’s hot.

“Nock!”

Aegon squints his eyes against the glare, the sun’s blade winking off of shields and cuirasses.

Aegon’s outgrown his old armor and there’s no more time to get it resized.

He’s wearing a set of armor that belongs to his father, and the three heads of the dragon have rubies for eyes.

“Draw!”

Aegon walks in between the goldcloaks defending the Lion Gate and watches as it shudders inward with the force of the battering ram on the other side.

The streets are barren and one could hear a pin drop from between the ranks.

The men at the Lion Gate number over a thousand strong and Aegon’s only manned the Mud Gate with five hundred to compensate for the men he needs here.

This is where Lydden’s men will base the bulk of the attack, although they’ve similarly encircled six of the seven city gates, save the Mud Gate.

“Loose!”

Aegon listens for the whiz of arrows and feels a clench of dry triumph as their targets scream in agony.

The call begins again and Aegon watches as the Gate heaves inward, not so much as splintering but groaning with the force.

Osfryd Kettleblack stands at the vanguard, his eyes continuously roaming over his men. Aegon dislikes the look of him. His eyes are black, not even a dark brown that livens in the light but a harsh pit that sits like a crater in his face.

His nose is hooked, as is common for House Kettleblack, and he’s leaner than his two brothers and meaner as well.

Ser Marbrand was Commander of the City Watch when Aegon was no more than a babe but he died in a skirmish in Dorne some years past.

Osfryd is a cold sort but as Commander, Aegon has no doubt that he’ll murder any man to attempt to tunnel under the walls or escalade over them.

“Tell your men I want any man that manages to breach the walls to take an arrow of fire. Notify me at once if the situation becomes dire.”

Kettleblack nods curtly before moving, nudging his men out of the way with the force of his shoulders.

No, he’s not a man Aegon would want to fight with, but nor does he wish to fight alongside him.

He turns his head to the Red Keep, situated at the pinnacle of Aegon’s High Hill.

There are secret tunnels in and out of the Keep, one’s he memorized as a boy and has long since forgotten.

His mother and Lady Sansa are sequestered deep in Maegor’s Holdfast and it gives him some measure of peace to know that they’re safe.

Ser Walden Whent is the highest-ranking member of the Kingsguard now that the Sword of the Morning is away with the King and it’s he that Aegon motions to as he makes his way through the city toward the Dragon Gate.

“Your Grace,” Walden says, and Aegon turns to look at him with a frown.

“I need you at the Lion Gate, my friend. I don’t trust Kettleblack and I’ll warrant you don’t either.”

Walden laughs and sighs all at once and Aegon looks at him askance.

“Aye, Your Grace. It seems to me that it isn’t safe for you to roam the City right now.”

Aegon almost comes to a halt at the impertinence but continues his walk, stepping over the discarded wares from a street vendor.

They’ll be passing Flea Bottom soon and Aegon can smell the stench of it from this far away. It always used to roll his stomach as boy and he’d lose his lunch every time Jon and Rhaenys would drag him on an adventure.

They eventually started leaving him at home, his silver hair too distinctive, and he can’t say that he minded being left out.

There are still children shrieking with joy in the streets but considerably less than usual. The smallfolk had been hushed when Aegon had first sent out the goldcloaks a week and a half ago, when the siege began.

There’s more than enough food in the city to withstand the attack and father had reconstructed the water supply shortly after the failed Sack, just in case anything of the sort ever happened again.

Now the children fall silent again as Aegon and Whent stride past, mail and sword clinking as they go.

A little girl with a dirty face and a gap-toothed smile waves broadly as Aegon passes, even as her mother catches her by the hand and drags her away with harsh words.

“It’s the King, you’re not allowed to _touch,_ Kalen,” her mother says and Aegon winces as a projectile flies through the sky and lands with thunder against stone. It sounds as though it’s near the Old Gate, north of Rhaenys’ Hill.

The girl squeals in terror and Aegon stops, dropping to a careless kneel before her.

“I’m not anymore a King than you are,” Aegon says, and the child blinks wet eyes at her mother. She looks back and forth between Aegon and her mother and slaps a grimy palm down against his knee.

It clinks, flesh to metal, and the girl smears the surface before grinning widely, two front teeth gone missing.

“You got on the King’s colors. And the dragon has three heads!”

Aegon remembers Jon saying the same, often when they were children and later, when they sparred.

“Aye. It has three heads, the more to protect you and your mother.”

The child, Kalen, it seems, giggles again and her mother steps forward tentatively, refusing to meet Aegon’s eyes.

“Apologies, Y’Grace. She’s little and doesn’t know any better.”

“Your Grace,” Whent says, and Aegon sees him reach out to clasp Aegon’s shoulder and fall short, as though he had forgotten that he and the Prince are not familiar.

“Your Grace, from Rhaenys’ Hill we can see the men they’ve got around the Dragon Gate.” There’s another mighty crash and the smattering of smallfolk who came to see their prince screams and scatters.

Kalen’s mother catches her by the waist and Aegon rises from the cobblestones to his full height.

“She reminds me of my sister,” Aegon says by way of apology, smiling his most disarming smile as the little girl buries her face in her mother’s neck.

“Please, stay indoors. I don’t want anyone hurt but my men, if it comes to that.”

The mother nods, flattening her palm to the back of Kalen’s head.

Whent nudges him, light enough to be respectful but strong enough to remind him to keep moving.

Aegon turns away and strides forward, allowing Whent to catch up to his right side.

“That was precious of you. Your Grace,” Whent says, adding the honorific as an afterthought.

Aegon’s first instinct is to be angered; Jon and Rhaenys have goaded him into a fight a time or two using this tactic, but Whent says it with a hint of jest and Aegon softens.

“Aye. Rhaenys would’ve eaten the child alive but Jon...Jon would’ve stopped. Seven Hells, he probably would’ve given her a purse of gold dragons and the night’s meal.”

“Well. You’re here to make sure there’s a city full of gold dragons you can give her later.”

Aegon laughs and it feels out of place in the moment.

Whent touches him then, a pat on the shoulder, but when Aegon turns to look at him Whent’s face is drawn once more.

“After the Dragon Gate I want to check the Gate of the Gods. The most immediate road to the city leads through it. We’ve over a thousand goldcloaks both there and at the Lion Gate,” Aegon says.

“Aye. The Gate of the Gods is a straightaway with no hills and only the most foolhardy will risk climbing the walls without view of our archers.”

The Dragonpit looms before them, situated at the top of Rhaenys’ Hill. The men stationed there can see  Lydden’s men and it’s from there some of the catapults are stationed.

“When my Uncle Viserys arrives we’ll be glad they’ve stretched themselves so thin. The men at the Mud Gate can be redirected when that time comes.”

“And the King, Your Grace?”

Aegon thinks of father, trekking back to King’s Landing through the forest, likely avoiding the Goldroad entirely.

He knows that’s where Rhaenys has gone, knows it so well he’s furious that he didn’t see it sooner.

She’d become aloof, no longer bothering him after meetings with the small council. She didn’t sneak into the war room in attempts to memorize the battle maps.

Aegon supposes she’d worn Jon down in the end.

“When the King returns, he’ll have my sister with him. He’s not like to risk attempting to cross the King’s Gate without my Uncle’s men.”

Aegon strides to the uppermost point of the Dragonpit where he can make out Lydden’s livery of pale green and brown.

“Do you want me to relocate the men from the Mud Gate to escort her when the time comes?”

Aegon nods at the sight before him and turns swiftly and veers toward the Street of the Sister.

“Aye. Your best men. Those who are battle-trained. Once she’s been safely delivered to the Keep, send them to the Gate of the Gods.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Aegon wants to tell Whent to call him by his given name but he doesn’t think now is the time to try and foster new friendships.

Father and Whent’s uncle had been close as boys and Aegon knows that Ser Oswell died that day at the Tower of Joy, killed by his bride’s father.

There’s something ugly in the sentence and Aegon thinks that maybe he’s not meant to have friends. Perhaps this is what Jon meant when he said that these are the things that make him King.

 _No matter,_ Aegon thinks resolutely. The gates must remain fortified and the Red Keep must not fall. Anything else is in the hands of the Gods.

-

Jon

301 AC

The bank of the Trident is cacophonous when they finally arrive.

Jon’s no longer suffering from saddle sores but he may have acquired an extra layer of skin in the attempt.

Lord Stark’s been no more talkative than usual but at the last campsite before the Trident he’d asked Jon about Egg and Jon had nearly lost his balance from the shock of it.

“What about Egg,” Jon said as Lord Stark untucked his bedroll with a sharp snap.

“What manner of man is he? You seem to be close and through our journey I’ve found no fault with you.”

Jon laughs against his will.

“High praise coming from you, my lord.”

Lord Stark smiles and it transforms his face. “Aye. You have the look of her,” he said haltingly, “of your mother. The both of you, running headlong into danger.”

Jon didn’t dare move from his awkward stance against Vermithor’s flank, as though he might spook Lord Stark in his desperation for more.

“Is that a poor quality to share then?”

Lord Stark laughed quietly, poking at the fire with a large stick.

“Only for my health.”

Lord Stark had looked at him pensively and talk had turned yet again to other things.

Now, as they make haste for the center of camp, Jon can see the sky-blue banners fluttering easily in the breeze as though they’ve done so for all time.

“How did they get here so quickly, my lord?” Jon asks, even as they pass men who clap Lord Stark on the shoulder in familiarity.

“Where’s Robert, Ser Belmore,” Lord Stark asks, and the lanky red-head the question is directed to smiles broadly with a mouth full of charmingly crooked teeth.

“Lord Ned! He’s at the rear in the war tent. He’ll be pleased to see you. He did not expect you for another moon’s turn.”

“Aye, I’ll have to remind him of our misspent youth.”

Ser Belmore looks from Lord Stark to Jon in confusion and then his eyes widen infinitesimally.

“Y-Your Grace,” he stammers and the men around him turn at the honorific.

It’s only the long years of practice that keep Jon from turning as red as a boy with his first maiden.

“Just Jon, my lords, please,” he says, uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

“Dayne’s trained the lad all his life,” Lord Stark says, clapping a hand against Jon’s chest. “He doesn’t stand much on ceremony.”

The men look at him speculatively and it makes him wonder of Ser Arthur’s real reputation in the field. House Dayne doesn’t pass along its greatsword in the traditional manner and so Ser Arthur had received it out of sheer prowess.

“I’d rather the King not have my head,” a man bellows from where Jon cannot see him and the rest of the men erupt into laughter.

“It’s my taking of it that should concern you more,” Jon says and he momentarily forgets that it’s not Egg he’s teasing, nor the goldcloaks he’s known all his life.

The knights don’t seem to mind, laughing uproariously again.

Lord Stark guides him with a firm palm to his shoulder blade and they push on through to the considerable host.

“The knights of the Vale know the land intimately,” Lord Stark answers and Jon can barely remember his question.

“They can see every route from the Giant’s Lance, though it looks like child’s play from so great a height.”

Jon had been to the Eyrie once as a boy, when he was naught more than five years old. He and Egg had held hands at the Bloody Gate, peeking out from behind their nursemaid’s skirts.

“Aye, I see,” Jon says. “Passing Lefford’s men during the siege at Riverrun must have been difficult for Marbrand. It will have slowed them down.”

The men are thinning as they walk and the banners fly proudly from the blue tents at the furthest point from what will likely become the vanguard.

“That’s likely the case. They’ll know we’ll have sent ravens to the Eyrie and called on Lord Arryn’s men,” Lord Stark says. “If we’re right, they’re waiting on the northern half of Lannister’s host before they march on us.”

Lord Stark sweeps aside the outer flap of the tent with a flourish and Ser Robert stops mid-sentence to gaze heavily on the intruder. Beside him is a man square of jaw and with hair silvered from age. His eyes pass over Lord Stark kindly but his blank expression does not seem to change.

“Lord Arryn,” Lord Stark says and Lord Arryn laughs jovially in the ensuing silence.

“Gods, Ned, let me look upon you!”

Lord Stark smiles again, a grin amongst equals, and Jon rests his palm against his sword’s hilt.

“You’ve gotten old,” Lord Arryn says and Lord Stark laughs. “And you’ve gone grey, my friend.”

Lord Arryn motions to the man beside him. “Ser Egen, my captain of the guards,” Lord Arryn introduces, and Egen steps forward, clasping Lord Stark by the hand.

“Lord Stark.” He nods in Jon’s direction. “I’m guessing this’ll be His Grace?”

Jon blinks in confusion and even Lord Stark looks at Egen consideringly.

“He has the look of the King,” Egen says in answer to the silent question. “It’s King Rhaegar’s face without the coloring. That’s all wolf, if Your Grace will pardon my mentioning it.”

Jon nods stupidly, clearing his throat before he tries to speak.

“Aye. I’ve come to fight alongside you.” Jon feels out of his element amongst these men and he does his best to lighten the situation.

“Not that I expect I’ll be very much help but the Sword of the Morning trained me since childhood.”

Egen makes an impressed noise and Lord Arryn bows at the waist.

“Excuse my candor, Your Grace, but have you yet killed a man?” Lord Arryn asks, and Jon’s back stiffens.

“When I was a boy of five and ten, my lords. A few drunken goldcloaks attempted to force themselves upon my sister. I slew three before they could unsheath sword from scabbard. Ser Arthur did not arrive until later.”

Jon looks both Egen and Arryn in the eye and rests his knuckles against the war table so it might bear their weight.

“I know what it’s like to have blood on my hands. I was born in it.”

The two nod, chastened. “Your Grace,” they murmur and Lord Stark gives him a slow nod that somehow feels more telling than all that have come before it.

They discuss tactics until the sun sets and Jon knows that the first three ranks of the shield wall will be comprised of the knights and those men from greater noble houses, the Belmores and Waynwoods and the like.

Even Lord Stark appears exhausted by the end of it, he who is so indefatigable.

“Get some sleep, Your Grace,” Lord Stark says and Jon startles at the title.

“It’s better for you if I show you proper honors in front of the men,” he explains, leading Jon to a tent that’s been hastily erected for him.

“I don’t need all of this space, my lord,” Jon says, eyes widening as he takes in the double-stuffed bedroll in the center of the area.

“No, but that’s what you’ll get. You represent the Crown. They’re only sorry they didn’t think to have Targaryen colors on hand.”

Jon’s got his own livery packed and he’ll ride to battle with the heads of the dragon emblazoned on his chest.

“How much easier it would all be if I didn’t,” Jon murmurs, and Lord Stark scrubs a hand over his beard.

“I’ll see you on the morrow,” Lord Stark says, the tent flaps swinging behind him as he leaves.

Jon’s alone for the first time in little over a month and it feels strangely. He’d like to go and speak with the men who are fighting for him but he’s so very exhausted he’s like to fall into the fire if he sits around it.

He can hear the men winding down outside, even those that are deep in their cups.

They’ve kindly left him paper, quill, and ink at the small chest near his makeshift bed and Jon eyes it in interest.

He’s not much for writing, at least not before Lady Sansa demanded his correspondence, but now he thinks that he should write as often as he can, if only to prepare for the fact that he may never see her again.

He discards his doublet and breeches messily, dropping them to the floor in a way he’d never do if he was home.

His hands are calloused and sensitive from so long riding but he rubs out the stiffness and dips the quill in ink.

_Lady Sansa,_

_If you’re reading this, I’ve died at the Trident with the Valemen. I can only hope that your father has somehow squired you this letter or it has come by your hands in favorable circumstances. Despite this, the odds of you reading this are low, for if I am to survive the coming battle, I should never let you see this, both for the sake of my honor and yours._

_Did you know I dream of you? Of course not. How could you. How could you understand that when I mean that I dream of you, it’s that I see the kiss of your hair in my mind’s eye. It’s a terrible thing to wake with the smell of lavender in my nose and know you’re not near enough to have caused it. It’s times like that that I wish we had never met. I do not regret having known you, no, not for a single second, but only that Targaryen men have a penchant for wanting what does not belong to them. Here, I can admit it. I do want you. I do. I have wanted you since I escorted you to my brother’s side and offered you as his bride. What do you make of that? Of me? You were so sweet, my lady. I’ve never known anyone to cry so heartily for others, more so than you do for yourself. The worst of it is that Aegon deserves you. My brother is a kind man. He is better with his words and I speak nonsensically with my eyes and you may never know I feel any of this at all. How can I explain it better to you? I makes little sense to me. How can a feeling be so strong when we’ve known one another briefly? How is it that I can’t stop thinking of the softness of your skin and the way I would like to see it uncovered for me? I’ve never felt any of this before and am sure never to again. If this is my last letter, I want to have it out and done with. If I am to live and return to you (not to you, never to you) then I will do my duty by my brother and treat you with the honor you deserve._

Jon pauses, his hand cramping violently from the sprawl of his emotions across the page.

_By the gods, I hope this never sees the light of day._

He doesn’t bother signing it, it will go nowhere and see no one, but he tucks it within his saddlebag, sandwiched in between the pages of a book of poetry that Lady Sansa had been reading in the gardens.

She’d left it behind in her hurry to go sup with Egg one evening and he’d pocketed it, savoring the freshness of her skin on its page.

He barks out a laugh at himself, blowing on the ink to dry it.

Pathetic, is what he is. The sooner he weds his own wife and gets her with child, the sooner he’ll have no choice but to stay his wandering eye and remain faithful.

It’s hard, Jon admits, stretching out on his bed and closing his eyes, when all he sees behind his lids is the bright color of Lady Sansa’s cheeks when she smiles.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Sansa

301 AC

_Dear Jon,_

_I had resolved to write to you a week ago. I know there’s no way for you to receive these save me handing them to you in a fit of madness but as I set quill to paper I’m finding it easier to speak with you. I can understand what you meant when you said it was easier to bear._

_That in mind, I’ll need you to bear with me, for the things I mean to impart are both dishonorable and terrifying in nature._

_The Queen Mother has died four days past. It was I who had the fortune of sitting with her when she departed and so her last words were given to me to keep. I’m beginning this with little emotion but you must know that I cried then and am crying now. She was so strange at the end, Jon. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, for I got the sense you and she weren’t close (understandably) but it was as though a spell of some sort came over her. Can you imagine? She spoke of your sister and your brother and then it was as though she lost the rope of reality and she thought I was Prince Aegon. I was so frightened. She’s—she was so gentle and frail-looking. I tried to call the Maesters and I ran, Gods, I ran so far and my ankle’s a fright because of it and nothing at all helped._

_There’s no one in the Keep for it, with the King and Prince at war, and Lord Hightower is inconsolable. I didn’t know they were close at all. The ladies are looking to me, as though it’s my place. I’ve had her prepared for burial but it’s too dangerous to have her body transported to the Sept. The catapults send rocks over day and night and we shake at the slightest sound. I worry ceasingly because I know I’ll have no news of you and father and somehow that’s worse than knowing because I’ll lose my wits wondering if you both will come back in one piece._

_And Prince Aegon. How am I to explain that he went off one day to war to protect his mother and came back to find her gone? And Princess Rhaenys? It’s all fallen to me and now I must turn the ink to you._

_I’m a maid—you must know that but I’ve memorized every letter you’ve written to me. I keep them in a secret pocket I’ve sewn into all my best gowns. I don’t want to ever lose them. I don’t know how to tell you of my feelings and I don’t want to be cruel with my affections. You make me feel safe in a way Aegon does not. He worries for his kingdom and his people and by all rights, I should love him. He is a prince out of a storybook._

_But it’s you, Your Grace, that I think of at night. Aegon doesn’t love me. Not truly. I think he could, with time, but I’m the Rose of Winterfell that he was promised. I’ll bear him babes and look lovely doing it. He likes me because he should and I’ve treated him the way I was taught. That’s not love, though. Is it, Jon? I’m sure it could grow into that. I could be happy with him._

_But he wouldn’t consume me. It’s consuming, whatever this is. It’s so frightening and I wish I didn’t have to bear it here alone without even the comfort of your presence—_

Sansa hears two sharp raps on her door, followed by the brass clang of the knocker.

“Lady Sansa,” she hears and recognizes Wylla’s voice instantly.

Wiping her eyes, she blows frantically on the paper and folds it in half, stuffing it into her vanity.

“Come in,” she says and Wylla does, playing with the handkerchief in his hand.

“Sansa,” she says and Sansa’s bottom lip wobbles.

Wylla catches her up in a hug and Sansa takes four deep breaths before she pulls back.

“A Kingsguard came to speak with you but I told him you were abed because of the stress of the last few days.”

Sansa nods and sits down at the desk once again, playing nervously with the hair her handmaiden had fixed earlier in the morning.

“I’m fine, Wylla. A bit out of sorts but mostly I’m so very sorry any of this happened. It’s cruel of the gods for it all to happen at once.”

Wylla nods shortly. “Aye. But it seems that in Their infinite wisdom they’ve allowed Prince Viserys safe passage from Storm’s End. He’s come with his great host and the tide has turned.”

Sansa rises so quickly that her pot of ink threatens to topple and she stills it with one shaking hand.

“A Kingsguard told you this? They can be seen from the ramparts?”

Wylla nods, face alight.

“They can. I don’t understand war but I know Prince Viserys brought men in far greater numbers than the enemy.”

Sansa catches dark skirts up into her hand and laughs a hysterical laugh of joy.

“Wylla. I could just. Cry. Or scream, really. Can you—do you mind gathering the ladies and asking if they would like to pray in the godswood? Or if they’re too worried, tell them I’ll come by to speak with them in the Holdfast.”

Wylla smiles gently. “I think they’ll like to speak to you.”

Sansa rubs her eyes and tucks a wayward curl behind her ear.

“Gods, why,” she says plaintively. “There’s so much to be done. I want to make sure that no one ignores the queen in the middle of all of...this,” Sansa says, gesturing with her arm.

“I don’t want Prince Aegon to come back and see that we’ve forgotten about the mother he’s only just lost.”

Wylla smiles conspiratorially and Sansa shakes her head in response.

“Oh no. Absolutely not, Wylla.”

“Absolutely yes. You seem very concerned for your betrothed.”

Sansa’s face flushes far past the blush that Jon seems to favor. The thought makes her color further and Wylla makes sure the door is latched before she grabs Sansa by the hand.

“Have you...done anything?”

Sansa’s eyes widen.

“Gods! No. Of course not. Not for lack of want, but. I don’t think that Prince Aegon is the one that I prefer.”

Wylla’s eyebrows rise and this time her smile is sly. “I knew it. Every time you saw him, you colored so prettily. And he was always looking when you didn’t notice.”

Sansa fiddles with the lace at her collarbone, a lower neckline than she’s used to. She’d had several dresses made in the new fashion before the city was besieged with no reason to wear them.

She hadn’t felt the need to wear them now but all her regular gowns needed to be taken in after the stress of the last few weeks and these were the only ones available.

“You can’t say anything. We’re not going to do anything about it. My mother always said that she and father built a life together, stone by stone. That’s what I’m going to do with Aegon. I’ll be a good mother and I’ll try and be a good queen.”

Sansa’s almost breathless after the proclamation and Wylla looks at her with something like pity in her gaze.

“But what do you _want,_ Sansa?”

“What I _want_ is to tell the ladies the good news and perhaps see if the Kingsguard will let us out in the gardens for a bit of fresh air. Honestly, I’d like to send a raven north as well.”

Wylla narrows her eyes. “Sansa.”

Sansa throws up her hands and her billowing sleeves nearly hit her in the face. “I don’t know. To speak with Jon about all of this? For Father to be here so I could know he was safe?”

Sansa sighs, picking up a newer volume of poetry she’d borrowed from the Keep’s library.

The book is heavy, the pages thick and pristine, almost untouched by human hands.

“I want to touch him. Or have him touch me. I want to try all manner of unspeakable things that I don’t yet have names for and you can’t tease me about it,” Sansa says with a self-deprecating laugh.

Wylla takes her arm, waving it negligently. “You like what you like. I’m only sorry that you might never get what you want.”

Sansa snorts and Wylla pats at her hand in laughter. “I’ve got to marry well. Can you imagine what a nightmare it will be to marry Arya off?”

Wylla’s laughing mid-answer when there’s another knock at the door, this one far more sedate and respectful that the first.

Wylla raises her eyebrows and Sansa shrugs before calling out.

“Who is it?”

“Ser Crabb, my lady. His Grace has briefly returned to the Keep and would like a word with you.”

Sansa’s face pales and Wylla’s hand tightens as she sways in place.

It’s Wylla who opens the door and meets the mild-mannered face behind it. The knight’s face is unshaven and pale of color, with black whiskers on his cheeks.

The kingsguard bows, his white cloak sweeping the stone.

“W-where is His Grace, Ser?” Sansa asks, and Ser Crabb motions to the corridor with his head.

“The throne room, my lady. He’s to head to the King’s Gate to convene with his Uncle’s host.”

Sansa nods, although she’s unsure of what that means.

“I’ll just. I’ll need to meet with the ladies--” Sansa can feel the tips of her ears heating and Ser Crabb seems to soften, offering her his arm.

“Aye, my lady. I’ll escort you to the King and then to the Holdfast, if you like.”

Wylla’s fussing with her hair, arranging a curl this way and that and smoothing her hands over Sansa’s bodice, but really, Sansa’s just trying to figure out if she should tell him now or wait.

Ser Crabb is very tall, taller than even the King, and he keeps up a steady stream of meaningless chatter that Sansa finds surprisingly comforting.

Sansa’s heart beats in uneven steps and she clutches her kerchief in her free hand, pressing it to her breast in anxiety.

“Don’t be nervous, my lady. I’ve known Prince Aegon since he was but a boy, shoving his brother into mud holes. You look right lovely and you’ve nothing to be afraid of.”

Ser Crabb smiles kindly down upon her and Sansa laughs, although it comes out tremulously.

“You’re very kind, Ser Crabb. Everything that’s been going on has me a bit out of sorts,” she says as they come to the entrance to the throne room and he releases her arm.

He dips his head in acknowledgment and all prior congeniality drains from his face like a sieve as he takes his post up against the walls that bracket the entrance.

Prince Aegon’s back is ramrod straight as she approaches, his body facing the wide windows that cover the back wall of the room.

All of King’s Landing lies below them and there’s a clink of armor as he turns around to meet her gaze.

His eyes light up and he rushes forward, his helmet tucked underneath the metal prison of his left arm.

“Sansa,” he says, and Sansa curtsies, her hair tumbling into her face.

“Your Grace.”

“No, none of that,” he chides, and his face looks boyish in its excitement. The harried lines she saw before he left to defend the city are gone, and he looks so painfully young that Sansa has to glance away.

She’ll destroy that if she tells him. He’ll look at her and associate her with madness the rest of his life.

She’s trembling and so she locks her fingers together in an attempt to corral her nerves.

“I didn’t trust any others to deliver this news and I only trust you to carry it out.”

Sansa steps forward in concern. “What is it? I fear if it’s military matters I’ll be quite unhelpful, but I’m willing to learn.”

Aegon cups a hand around her cheek and pats it fondly.

“No, nothing of that sort. That would be far too complicated for you.” Aegon rubs his thumb underneath her eye and Sansa shudders at the sense memory. Another calloused finger had done the same and it felt nothing like it does now.

“My sister has most likely ridden to my father. Jon figured that the King might be at Tumbleton in the two weeks it took for he and your father to ride halfway to the Trident. Jon would’ve told Rhaenys about that. I’m not as easy to coerce,” Aegon laughs, his silver hair halfway twisted atop his head.

His face hardens as quickly as it had dissolved into mirth.

“My father’s men number only a thousand and he’ll not have attempted to cross the gates until my Uncle’s host arrived.”

Sansa digs a thumbnail into her palm. “Aye, Aegon,” she says slowly, “but what has that to do with me?”

“My father will smuggle her behind the gates and into the Red Keep. I’ll need you to let her in when she comes and take care of her. The goldcloaks are like to shoot their arrows first and ask questions later. I need you to keep my sister safe.” Aegon smiles and steps close enough so that he can see the crown of her head.

“I want her as safe as I’ve kept you.”

His thumb returns and Sansa wants to drag her face free but all she can think is

_His mother is dead his mother is dead his mother is dead_

And her eyes fill with tears. Aegon smooths away the moisture and makes a humming sound in his throat.

“Don’t cry, my dear. I know it’s been a difficult time for you to bear. A wolf you may be but that doesn’t mean that this hasn’t been overwhelming.”

Sansa shakes her head and Aegon’s eyes crinkle with mirth, the same way they do in Jon’s face.

“I’ll do as you ask, Your Grace. As long as the goldcloaks know not to hinder me.”

Aegon nods. “Of course. I need to meet with my Uncle. Are you alright?”

Sansa knows that now is not the time to tell him but the words claw at her throat, the Stranger come to steal her breath.

She clutches at his hand as he turns to leave and he mistakes it for fear at his going.

“I’ll protect you, Sansa. You’ll see. Nothing bad will happen.”

 _It already has,_ she thinks, but he leaves in a flash of glory, the ruby-eyed dragon winking in his wake.

Ser Crabb inclines his head to her as he follows and Sansa straightens her back as she makes for the godswood.

-

Arthur

301 AC

Prince Viserys’ host descends like a plague.

Lydden’s men have spread themselves thin as a result of their encirclement and so there are only a thousand or so men guarding the King’s Gate.

Rhaenys-- _the princess_ \--remains in the rearguard, flanked by two Kingsguard and a small host of soldiers.

Arthur’s thoughts dangerously sway in her direction, wondering if she’s safe and behaving behind her wall of protectors.

The three-headed dragon flutters in the wind, red and black against the unforgiving summer sun.

Viserys is broader than Arthur remembers, though still thinner than his older brother. Viserys was all sharp angles and sharper words as a boy, intent on besting Rhaegar in a contest that never existed.

He’d been wed first to Shireen Baratheon and the girl had died in childbed, but not before leaving him a little girl with Targaryen coloring. Rhaegar had next wed him to Lord Arryn’s second, a girl ten years his junior who came out with the Tully hair that had forsaken her mother, Lysa. This one had given him twin sons, one of each coloring.

Viserys’ animosity has softened over the years but he is more quick-witted than Rhaegar could ever hope to be.

 _Cunning,_ is what the kennelmaster had called Viserys’ as a boy, when he was still young enough to ask Arthur to teach him how to fight.

Arthur had, he remembers, and the boy had held his own.

Now, the three-headed dragon on his breastplate is smeared with blood against ruby and his silver hair is streaked with gore and dirt.

“They left the King’s Gate almost unfortified,” Viserys breathes, his mail clanging with every movement.

Rhaegar grabs his brother by the neck and drags him forward, resting brow to brow.

“You’ve been itching for the chance to play at war, haven’t you, little brother?”

The words are fond on Rhaegar’s end and Viserys smiles, a thin smirk that lightens his face.

“We rode without stop, brother. What does that tell you?”

“Come. We’ll attack the left flank at the Lion Gate and surround the remaining encirclement. Send three thousand of your men to the Gate of the Gods. Fortifications are weakest there,” Rhaegar says.

The Viserys of old has truly mellowed and he beckons to Lord Swann and the young man moves quickly, striding to Viserys’ side.

“Take your men to the Old Gate. I want them beheaded.” Viserys pauses. “I want you to bring back their heads for my brother.”

Arthur looks at Rhaegar and Rhaegar is smiling. It’s a specific blend of pride and bloodthirst, something that Arthur’s never managed despite all their years together.

Rhaegar mounts his horse and Viserys makes his way toward his own, but not before reaching back to lay a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

“I need you to bring me his head, old friend,” Viserys says.

Arthur stares at Viserys, taking in his unweathered visage. He’s a man of twenty and five, barely older than Rhaenys. He’s had to rule the Stormlands with an iron fist after they’d culled the Baratheons and while it has made a man out of him, it’s also made him more of a Targaryen.

“Whose, Your Grace? That of my cousin or that of the kingslayer’s blood?”

Viserys mounts his stallion with a smile that is all serrated edges.

“Ideally, whichever head comes first.”

Viserys is riding to catch up to Rhaegar when Arthur feels the pressure of a hand on his vambraces.

He looks down, and further still, to see Rhaenys, her hair done in a single braid that peeks from beneath the hood of her cloak.

“Has my uncle left?”

Arthur resists the urge to pull her in by the waist, the sense memory of her supple skin beneath his palms.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Arthur murmurs, and Rhaenys’ hand slaps at his armor.

“You called me all manner of things abed, Arthur, and none of them so lengthy as Your Grace.”

Arthur groans, brushing the sheen of sweat from his horse.

“I can’t very well repeat them here, princess,” Arthur manages, and Rhaenys turns her face to his with a crooked little smile.

“I don’t want Uncle Viserys to see me. He’s as like to get as angry as father did when he saw that I’d ridden to camp. They look so much alike. I’m not keen on having a repeat of the same lecture.”

“Aye, Your Grace. Your father will want you secured now that we’ve cleared--”

There comes a sudden blast of sound, abrupt and as dangerous as the horns that the rangers of the Night’s Watch use when combating wildings.

“Men of the Rock!” The watcher’s call is loud and shrill, and Arthur’s head swivels forward as the horses bray in response to the horns and shift in atmosphere.

“Men!” Ser Wylde calls, galloping through the disarray on his black steed, “spears and shields!”

Viserys’ men are well-trained and they fall into formation so quickly that Arthur loses sight of Rhaenys almost immediately.

“Princess!” Arthur yells, panicked in a situation where heretofore he’s known nothing but calmness.

Men in Targaryen livery ride past and he sees her, swamped between Wylde’s contingent.

“To me!” He calls and forces his horse into a restrained trot until he can reach down from the height to swing her up into the saddle.

She’s situated in front of him so he can shield her with his bulk and she’s atremble, her body shivering in a way that tells him she is very, very afraid.

He can see well from his perch and he watches the swell of Lannister bannermen as they cross the hilly terrain that leads to the Lion Gate. They look to be some twenty thousand strong and Arthur knows that’s at least half of the men Lannister is capable of calling.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and Rhaenys tries to turn to face him at the expletive.

“What is it? Arthur, what’s going on?”

He hushes her none too gently, settling one hand against her waist for a precious moment before transferring the grip to his reins.

Arthur can see Rhaegar’s head just above the crowd; his horse is a beast of an animal, brought across the sea from Essos.

It seems to be breathing fire now, and Rhaegar is gesturing wildly while Viserys digs his heels into his own mare.

Viserys rides ahead at his brother’s command and Arthur knows that the men are spreading out to block Lannister’s access to Lydden’s men at the Gate of the Gods.

“When I say go, I need you to go, do you hear me?” Arthur yells, leaning down to speak directly into Rhaenys’ ear. The girl shudders once and nods, her knuckles white where they’re pressed against her thighs.

He doesn’t see Lannister--but then, the half-man would ride in the rearguard with the archers, unable to fight with the skill of his dead brother, or any other man for that matter.

“Nock!”

He hears the call for the City’s archers to get in position and he knows that Lannister’s will retaliate as quickly as they can before the two armies clash.

King’s Landing has the high ground and the men atop the ramparts will deliver more killing blows by arrow that Lannister could hope to force.

“Loose!”

Rhaenys cries out at the sharp whiz of wind in the air when several hundred arrows are loosed into the oncoming horde.

Rhaegar draws Blackfyre from his scabbard and Arthur rests his hand on Dawn’s hilt.

For a moment, everything is silent. Arthur can count his heartbeats as twenty thousand men gallop forward on a collective scream, helmed by a face that Arthur hasn’t seen in fifteen long years.

His aquiline features are almost severe in their beauty, his deep purple eyes nearly black from this distance. His sword is slender and Arthur squints at the wink of red from its hilt--

Rhaegar’s eyes meet his in a type of prescience long unexplained as children.

“Go! Take her! Go!” Rhaegar yells, his hair whipping around his face in the maelstrom of bodies, and Rhaenys screams as Arthur’s horse rears back on her hind legs.

“He has Dark Sister! Darkstar has found her at last!”

Arthur’s words are lost to the cacophony but Rhaegar sees Darkstar brandishing his weapon and there’s no more time for Arthur to tarry, not if he wants to return to his King in time.

“Hyah!” He yells and his horse charges toward the Stormlander rear, breaking through the crush with a mighty gait.

“Hold on,” Arthur commands and he doesn’t dare look back.

Darkstar disappeared beyond the wall years ago and Arthur thought that his cousin was never to be seen again. He had long attributed Arthur’s success to Dawn and went in search of a sword to match it.

Arthur bends protectively over Rhaenys’ form as they fly behind the rearguard and to the newly unencumbered Iron Gate.

The last person to hold Dark Sister was Bloodraven, years before any of them were yet living. And now, Darkstar brandishes it.

Arthur can feel the air tighten his chest and Rhaenys has ceased to shiver in front of him, her body a taut line beneath his.

He knows he’s riding his horse too hard but there’s nothing to be done for it. The watchers will only be able to open the gates for a fraction of a second, just long enough for Rhaenys to run through.

Longer than he has to spare.

The arrows fly overhead and they’re close enough to the ramparts for Arthur to only just make out the resistance of the bowstring that comes from the draw.

Arthur’s horse kicks up clods of earth and they fly into the air, splattering he and Rhaenys with mud. She doesn’t make a sound, her body bent double and Arthur wishes he’d never put himself in the position to choose.

The Iron Gate looms heavy and impassive, a solid onyx compared to the more lively colors of its brothers. The knockers are forged into a dragon’s skull, each handle a twisting metal flame.

Arthur’s horse rears wildly as he jerks her to a halt, whispering hurried apologies under his breath. He longs to unsheath Dawn. He’s never heard the sounds of battle at his backside and most of him feels craven for the very action.

“Open up! The Sword of the Morning, on King Rhaegar’s command!”

Rhaenys’ body loosens as he speaks, even startling when he uses his title. There’s no time for arguments and even less time for pleasantries but he slides down sweat-slickened horsehair and reaches both arms up so the princess doesn’t have to make the fall.

She is swift, jumping into his outstretched arms, and he sets her down in mud so thick that it dirties her borrowed leathers immediately.

“Stand back for the gate!”

Arthur listens for the wizened creaking that portends the gate’s opening and Rhaenys looks up at him, face blanched in fear.

She cannot see past his body but what she can make out must terrify her.

“Look at me. Look at me, sweetling,” Arthur says, and she does, a stripe of mud licked underneath her right eye. He drags his thumb across her skin carelessly and she grabs at his rough hands before he can release her face.

“Come with me. Gods. Please, Arthur. Please, come with me.”

She sounds so frighteningly small, so like the little girl he watched grow that his shame almost threatens to consume him.

“You promised your father and you promised me. I have your word, Rhaenys.”

Arthur can hear the clang of heated metal against metal and what he imagines are death rattles.

The arrows hit with deadly accuracy and Arthur watches as the Gate opens a sliver, just wide enough for a body to pass through.

“Your word, Your Grace,” Arthur says, and Rhaenys searches his face for something and seems to nod to herself once she’s found it.

“Take care of my father,” she commands, and then she is gone, long hair flying like a whip behind her as she slides through the small opening.

“Close the Gate! Do it now! Make haste!” Arthur yells, mounting his horse in the same moment.

There’s no time to dwell, little enough time for the goodbye and he digs his heels into her sides for what he hopes is the last time.

He unsheathes Dawn as he tangles his reins into one fist and his heart beats a staccato rhythm as he approaches the battlefield.

There’s an ax half bludgeoned into the face of a boy not much younger than Jon and if Arthur dares look closely, arrows protruding from eyes.

He sees Darkstar first, his felinoid grace rendering him unmistakable. He wears no helmet and only the barest of armor, as though he’s a wildling or one of the northmen of Last Hearth.

He wields Dark Sister in dizzying fashion, once as a dagger and then both-handed, to lend the slender blade the force of a greatsword.

It was a weapon made for female hands, Visenya’s sword from Old Valyria, but Darkstar fights as though it is an extension of himself.

He’s familiar with it. Paid for it in blood, it would seem.

Rhaegar has lost his own visor and Blackfyre descends with the resonant clang of Valyrian steel, distinguishable even in the chaos.

Arthur rides to the rearguard and the crush of men startles his horse so badly he fears that either she or his men will be trampled to death.

He dismounts with a last look and holds Dawn aloft, the milk-white of the fallen star illuminating her in the strange way it always has.

He presses against body after body, shouldering his own men until he comes upon an enemy, dispatching him with the ease of skill and habit.

He’s not in the practice of extolling his own virtues, but these boys are green. They are an army of men who were too young to remember the War of the Usurper and so they fight for a sense of honor and duty that has never been theirs.

If he can get to Rhaegar then he can protect his King. His men surround him and although Rhaegar has the skill of a dozen men, even he can’t last forever.

Dawn’s blade winks white and red, viscous blood spilling from the tip onto Arthur’s hand.

“Move!” He screams, elbowing a boy in the back and killing two men at once, slicing Dawn through tendon and bone, starting with the neck of the boy on his left and finishing with the neck of the one on his right.

Their blood coagulates on Lannister livery and Arthur kicks the bodies away, finally a foot from Darkstar and his malevolent glory.

A man of his nature should have an aura of evil hanging overhead. As it is, he only resembles stealth incarnate. There is not a movement wasted. He sidesteps most blows and the ones he cannot avoid, he takes with grace.

There is a deep gash cutting across his left eyelid, courtesy of Blackfyre, and the blood seems to bother him little as reams Lord Staedmon from naval to forehead with a deft flick of his wrist.

“Darkstar! It’s me you’ve come to fight! You’ve no love for Lannister or Targaryen or any King of old!”

Darkstar’s head whips in his direction and his face curls into a facsimile of a smile.

Arthur grunts as he impales another boy who makes the mistake of hindering his progress, dragging Dawn free with a wet squelch.

Darkstar does not turn in his direction again, instead cutting down six men without forethought before coming face to face with Rhaegar himself.

Rhaegar’s forehead is bloodied, a gash to his brow, and he holds Blackfyre aloft with one hand.

Arthur cannot get closer without murdering his own men but he shoves through with a scream, so long and loud that he can see Darkstar’s neck stiffen.

“Rhaegar!”

The familiar is lost amongst the tumult and Dark Sister clashes against Blackfyre with a discordant sound.

Rhaegar fights as though possessed. This is how Arthur had imagined him at the Trident, in the last battle where he hadn’t been able to protect his King.

Rheagar had suffered a mighty blow to his chest from Baratheon’s warhammer and now he fights with Blackfyre as they did as boys, with loose, almost feral abandon.

Rhaegar is smiling, his blood coloring his pale hair a ghastly red. It looks bejeweled and Arthur pushes harder against the inadvertent blockade of bodies, almost dislocating his shoulder in the process.

Darkstar does not falter and he bows his neck forward in concentration, rushing Rhaegar as much as he can in a space so confined.

Rhegar blocks the blow with the flat of Blackfyre and Darkstar relents, flipping Dark Sister to his left hand.

Darkstar is speaking and Arthur can’t hear anything, but Rheagar’s face twists and he rushes forward, sword brandished.

Darkstar blocks it with a grin of his own and yet Rhaegar does not cease, raining blow after blow against Dark Sister until Darkstar is forced to handle the hilt with two hands in an attempt to remain upright.

Arthur knows what he’s trying to do. Rhaegar’s passions led them to this moment and it’ll be his end if Arthur can’t fight by his side.

Rhaegar drives Darkstar to his knees and Darkstar maintains his hold, his wiry frame camouflaging a deceptive strength.

Arthur pushes free, swinging his sword in an arc that warns his own men but sends the arterial spray of blood onto his armor and about his face.

He’s tasted other men’s blood enough times to be immune to the flavor but he cuts them down mercilessly, more beast than man.

Darkstar still almost-kneels into the red-brown of the battlefield and then he looks up at Rhaegar and smiles so peacefully that Arthur attempts to run and Rhaegar’s next blow falters.

Darkstar drops to his haunches and releases Dark Sister. Rhaegar overbalances with the loss of resistance and Darkstar catches Dark Sister by the hilt with his right hand, rising up on one knee to drive the blade into the soft underside of Rhaegar’s chin.

Everything becomes muted.

Rhaegar’s body stiffens with the killing blow and Darkstar rises in increments, pushing the blade through tongue and mouth and brain.

Dark Sister emerges from the crown of Rhaegar’s head and a shower of blood covers the King’s hair.

Rhaegar’s body does not loose Blackfyre as he crashes to both knees and topples face-first into the mud.

Arthur’s mind becomes silent. This is the headspace where he first learned to fight from his father.

He fought his ghosts at Starfall, bruised and bloodied, his knuckles gnarled from a young age.

It’s where everything is hushed and Arthur listens to the hum of his own blood. He counts every breath as it comes and releases it as it fades and it’s this place that gave him Dawn, this place that made him Sword of the Morning.

He’s violence unleashed and he cuts through the men without pause, breaking the line until he meets Darkstar face to face.

Darkstar holds Dark Sister disarmingly and he smiles with bloodied teeth.

The men around them have not yet noticed that the King has fallen and so they form a protective barrier around his body, almost a half-moon encirclement. The archers take care of the rest and so for the first time, Arthur’s progress is unimpeded.

“You’ve been compromised, cousin,” Darkstar says, licking the red off of his teeth with a wink of his tongue. “You won’t live to fight another day.”

Arthur grips Dawn with two hands and listens to his father’s voice in his head, a patient, toneless thing.

“Aye.” Arthur says. “Come and meet the sword that was never yours.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, this is GRRM’s sandbox and I’m adhering to the suspect codes of morality that exist within it, etc.
> 
> addendum: i can't believe i have to say this but--if Rhaenys sleeping with a man old enough to be her father bothers you more than Sansa sleeping with her blood cousin--your priorities are a little bit wack lmfao. I'm already going to hell, might as well give myself some light reading to take along with me. to all my fellow jonsa fans, i'm gonna make the filth five times more explicit for every self-righteous comment i receive lmfaoo
> 
> per usual. your comments are the light of my bleak grad school days


	8. Chapter 8

Aegon

301 AC

Battle of the Lion Gate

When Aegon was eleven and Jon just turned ten, he once followed his brother on a walk with Ser Dayne.

He was bored and Rhaenys was taking music lessons and unwilling to tolerate his presence in her solar.

Mother loved when he visited but he knew chatter often made her headaches worsen and so he slipped from the Keep at noonday, the dagger father gifted him for his nameday secure at his side.

He had named it Doom and father had looked upon him with the mirth that parents reserve for their children.

“A name for a greatsword, my boy,” father had said, ruffling his hair as he stood from the table. “I will pass Blackfyre into your care one day. You may name this one Doom if you like.”

Jon had received a twin dagger on his own nameday but with darker coloring. A physical manifestation of the brothers, Aegon supposed.

Jon named his End and father hadn’t said a word about it, only held Jon close before letting him go.

Jon fiddles with End now, flipping it through dexterous fingers in a way Aegon can’t manage. It’s difficult for him to be patient enough to learn and it’s a bit showy, it seems. Jon isn’t allowed to do it unless Ser Dayne or father is present and Ser Arthur rests a heavy hand on Jon’s shoulder and motions for him to repeat the trick.

Aegon knows that Ser Arthur rescued Jon and brought him to the Reed Keep after father killed Lord Baratheon at the Trident. It’s the only time father will speak of life before the War and Aegon’s never been especially interested in hearing about anything but the battles.

He’s always interested in his brother, though. Jon is his best friend. They’re of a height and Jon is brave where he is not, while Aegon’s like to be more impulsive.

Normally Ser Arthur trains them together but sometimes he and Jon go off alone when the sun sinks below the crest of Aegon’s High Hill.

Ser Arthur motions for him to thrust and Jon does, aiming for the exposed flesh of Ser Arthur’s chest. Neither of them is of a height of the knight but Ser Arthur blocks the parry fluidly, using the heel of his hand.

They take River Row, probably because the street is almost deserted during this time of night and Ser Arthur doesn’t like to take them into crowded places without a retinue of goldcloaks.

Aegon is close enough to hear Ser Arthur tell his brother do it again and again.

Jon doesn’t become frustrated the way he would’ve. He’s more patient but father always says that they share the same Targaryen temper. He says it with the ghost of a smile and Aegon forgets to be stealthy and stumbles out into the street proper.

“Your Grace,” Ser Arthur says without turning around, and Jon’s next blow swings wide as his brother looks up in surprise.

“I thought you were at lessons with father,” Jon says, balancing End on the flat of his index. The dagger swings like a pendulum, forever in danger of falling to the ground.

“He’s in a meeting with Uncle and the Lord of the Tides,” Aegon says, inexplicably annoyed for some reason.

“I want to try too, Ser Arthur. I’ve brought Doom.”

Ser Arthur had looked between the two of them, his gaze impassive.

“So you have,” Ser Arthur said.

Now, Aegon picks his way through the corpses of men he’s grown up alongside and some younger still. 

Uncle Viserys’ bannermen appear to have sustained the most casualties. The fighting has ended. Aegon never made it to Uncle’s side, instead he and his men diverted to the Gate of the Gods, easily squashing Lydden’s contingent with the help of the Stormland banners.

It’s Lord Langward to catch him, a broad man ten years his father’s senior. He has the sort of face that was handsome in youth and has aged well, a kind of wisdom in teal eyes.

“Your Grace. Let us tend the wounded. It falls to you to tell the people of King’s Landing that the threat has passed.”

Aegon barely hears the man, so intent is he on finding out the extent of the damage. How many men were hurt, how many need to be taken to the maesters.

“That’s for my father to decide. Is he with my Uncle?”

“Lord Viserys is with his men, Your Grace.” Lord Langward steps in front of Aegon’s progress again, his brawn effectively blocking him.

Aegon Targaryen is a lot of things. He can be brash and hotheaded, sentimental to a fault. But he knows when he’s been played.

“Where is my father, Lord Harwin?”

Lord Langward meets his eye, man to man. “Your father is with the Sword of the Morning. Seven blessings to you.”

Lord Langward moves away with a clink of metal and somehow Aegon wishes that the man had stayed.

The battlefield thickens as he progresses toward its center, and Aegon pauses a few times to help surviving soldiers lift injured comrades onto makeshift stretchers.

“His leg, Your Grace,” one man mutters, sporting a gash that stretches from neck to hairline.

He finds himself tarrying, his legs leaden as he passes another hill of dead men, these wearing Lannister gold.

He finds Ser Arthur in the center of the commotion, virtually untouched by the calamity.

There is a body nearby, a man with flowing hair and unseeing violet eyes. He’s gaunt in the extreme, as though he’s been ground down to the bare necessities. He’s covered in blood.

“That was Darkstar Dayne,” Ser Arthur says without turning to face him. Aegon feels uncomfortably young with the response.

“He died screaming.”

Aegon is motionless.

“Where is father, Ser Arthur?”

Logically, Aegon knows that time isn’t silent but Ser Arthur doesn’t reply and Aegon strides close enough so that he can see over Ser Arthur’s kneeling form.

Father lays halfway in his lap, his silvered hair matted to his skull with old blood. It’s already coagulated and flaking.

His face doesn’t look like anything Aegon remembers, so disfigured it is by what looks to be the work of a thin blade.

Ser Arthur does not look at him, nor rise. His large hands flutter atop father’s ruined face and Aegon turns away to vomit in red soaked grass.

His throat burns as he finishes and it takes everything he has not to fall to his knees.

“Where were you?!”

Aegon’s voice is loud. It is colder than ever before, colder than he dared be with a man so close to his father.

His dead father.

“You swore. You swore to do your duties until death. That was the oath you made my father when you were both boys. You swore it!”

Aegon eyes burn and he will not cry. The men are watching. They’ll not have the satisfaction of his tears.

“Aye. I did, Your Grace.”

Ser Arthur does not move and he’s still moving his hands ceaselessly. He closes father’s eyes with already bloodied hands and rocks back and forth on his haunches.

He weeps like a woman scorned, Aegon thinks derisively.

“Do not touch him,” Aegon says, his voice a hard, dead, thing.

Ser Arthur does not move and Aegon unsheaths his sword from scabbard, the blade trembling with Aegon’s rage.

“If my father is...dead, that makes me your King. I order you to release him.”

Ser Arthur looks up, his eyes terribly blank. Aegon remembers hiding from that gaze as a boy, he and Jon running through the kitchens with pockets packed with sweetmeats.

“Would you kill me then, Prince Aegon?”

Aegon shakes where he stands and his face heats. A boy. That’s all they’ll see. A green boy trembling in his father’s shadow.

“You have failed,” Aegon says darkly, and Ser Arthur rises to his full height, pressing father so gently into the earth that it’s almost a caress.

“Darkstar traveled beyond the Wall in search of a sword fit to battle Dawn. He found her in Dark Sister.”

Ser Arthur steps aside from father’s body and Aegon blinks back the rush of tears to see Blackfyre laid to rest next to a slender Targaryen sword.

“Langward,” Aegon says without turning, and the man steps close to his side as though he had been waiting for permission.

“See that someone takes my swords back to the Keep. Have the men guard Ser Arthur and take him to the Traitor’s Walk.”

Langward hesitates only briefly before doing as bid, calling out for Brune and Darke to take command of Ser Arthur.

“Have my father carried back in state.” Aegon looks upon Ser Arthur, meeting dark purple eyes with his own violet ones.

“Disarm him,” Aegon orders carelessly and Ser Arthur rises to his full height.

“You’ll not lay a hand on Dawn, Your Grace. I have my honor. I’ll not fight your commands.”

Aegon is startled; Ser Arthur has been nothing but deferential to him since boyhood. It was Jon he was familiar with. Jon he told stories to long after Aegon’s little brother should’ve been abed.

Aegon gestures for the men to take him away and he lowers his sword with a clatter.

Blackfyre is his now. 

He cannot look upon his father’s corpse and he’s grateful that the men shroud father before moving his body to the wagon they’ve brought from within the city gates. 

The men that have surrendered are sequestered in a large group close to the entrance of the Lion Gate.

He thinks about the man Lannister sent to kill his father. The same man who had given Lannister his gold and his seat at Casterly Rock.

He wasn’t with the host, Lord Follard tells him, rubbing at his beak of a nose. He falls into step with Aegon and Ser Crabb, chattering uselessly even though Aegon can’t be expected to keep conversation.

His father is dead. His  _ father  _ is dead. His father is  _ dead. _

The words take on a different flavor every time he says it, each time his foot strikes the cobblestones it comes a little different.

“...we’ll need to discuss the coronation, Your Grace. We’ll have your father interred at the Sept of Baelor.”

“My father is dead.”

Aegon doesn’t mean to say it aloud but Lord Follard seems to take it in stride while Ser Crabb’s hand descends against his shoulder in a broad pat.

Aegon does not speak until they arrive at the Keep and he realizes that he must tell his mother everything. And his sister. Has she been kept safe or has she been brutalized by the very men Lannister sent to kill father?

Ser Arthur has been walking ahead of Aegon, flanked by goldcloaks, most of them boys he once taught to fight in the training yards.

Ser Arthur’s head is held high and they guide him toward the entrance to the dungeon, a large door of hammered iron.

The men seem to fall away as Aegon progresses and only Ser Crabb remains, walking with Aegon all the way to the throne room.

“My King,” he says, and Aegon startles so badly that Ser Crabb has no other option but to ignore it.

The Iron Throne is a monstrous, twisted thing. For all his talk as a child, he’s never sat on it. Rhaenys did so when she was young and dared Jon to as well, knowing that Jon meant to keep his word.

She’d never made him do it. It was as though she’d always known he would never try.

There are ten steps that lead to the high seat, but no railing to make the climb any easier. Any man wounded by the swords is not fit to sit the Throne.

“I have your father’s sword, Your Grace. Dark Sister has already been sent to the King’s chambers. Would you like me to have Blackfyre sent there as well?”

Aegon nods without turning around.

“Aye. Have you heard news from Lady Sansa? Is my sister safe?”

Ser Crabb’s armor makes a heavy sound as he redistributes his weight.

“Aye, Your Grace. Lady Stark and Princess Rhaenys are in the princess’s solar with the other women.”

Aegon’s body sags and he almost pitches forward into the Throne. His throne.

“Send for them, please.”

Ser Crabb pauses before clearing his throat.

“Your Grace.”

Aegon listens as Ser Crabb strides away and then steps one foot on the first stair of the throne. Climbing is easy once he begins but then his face is wet as she turns at the top to sit in his father’s seat.

Ser Arthur was the finest knight seen in decades. The Sword of the Morning hadn’t bothered saving his father.

Aegon’s hand curls into a fist on the armrest. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting when he hears Rhaenys’ determined stride into the room.

Lady Sansa follows more sedately and her eyes widen as she takes in Aegon’s position.

Lady Sansa sinks to a curtsy in supplication but Rhaenys reels backward so quickly that Sansa has to grab at her arm to keep her from falling.

“Are you playing at the throne the way you’ve played at war, little brother?”

Aegon’s nails dig into his palm, four crescent moons into pale skin.

“Father was slewed on the field of battle. Darkstar killed him using Dark Sister.” 

Rhaenys wails, a strangled gasp that makes Aegon hotly pleased. How she’d underestimated him. 

“I would not sit here but for that, sister. This makes me your King now.” Rhaenys’ small fists tighten and Sansa looks between them both with wide, beautiful eyes.

She’ll make a lovely queen, Aegon thinks absently. His to keep for always.

“Liar. Liar. Take me to him. Show me his  _ body.  _ Arthur--Ser Arthur would have never--”

Aegon stands so suddenly that his mail drags against the tip of a blade and the sound of clashing metal is loud and horrific.

“I will have your silence, woman! Arthur?? Ser Dayne? The Sword of the Morning? He didn’t save our father. He failed him and so he has failed me.”

Rhaenys pales and for the first time that Aegon can remember, she is blessedly silent.

“You will come with me when we tell mother,” Aegon says carelessly, and Rhaenys’ face twists and in that moment Aegon believes his sister wishes he would burn in seven hells.

“Tell him, Lady Sansa. Tell him what you told me when I returned and tried to go and see mother.”

Sansa’s face is pinched, her red hair falling down her back in supple waves. She looks ill and Aegon opens his mouth to berate Rhaenys for frightening his bride when Sansa steps forward, her hands clasped underneath her chin.

“Your Grace, your mother died four days past. Just before Prince Viserys’ host arrived from Storm’s End. I was with her when she passed. She asked for you. I think she’d like you to know that she loved you very much.”

Sansa’s voice trembles but she is somehow steady nonetheless. She meets his eyes as she speaks as though she knows he deserves the care.

“Do you lie for my sister,” Aegon says roughly, taking the stairs two at a time so that he comes down to loom above them.

Rhaenys grabs Sansa by the wrist, shoving his bride behind her.

“Leave her be, brother,” Rhaenys hisses.

“I have seen her body. I’ve touched it, cried over it. Mother is dead. There’s no one to tell.”

Sansa keeps a hand at Rhaenys’ waist and he knows that they’re scared (of him, his brain whispers) but he can’t feel anything. He can’t even see straight.

“She knew! You knew when I asked you to take care of Rhaenys! You knew and did NOTHING!”

Rhaenys slaps him, her palm connecting with such force that he stumbles backwards.

“What was she to do,  _ Your Grace,”  _ Rhaenys hisses, and Sansa’s eyes are wide and wet.

“I didn’t keep it from you intentionally, Your Grace. You were at war. It’s what my--my own mother would’ve done for my father.”

Aegon knows the side of his face is red and his mouth twists.

“I’ve neither one of those things, have I?”

Sansa ducks her head and he watches, detached, as her hand curls into a fist. Angry, then. His little kitten has claws.

“Sleep it off, Aegon,” Rhaenys says, all the fight leached from her body. “Don’t send for either of us. We won’t come.”

Sansa looks up before she leaves and the hard gaze that meets his eyes is not one he’ll soon forget.

-

Jon

301 AC

Second Battle of the Trident

When Jon was fourteen, he was knighted by his father at the tourney at Riverrun. He’s sure that Sansa had been there with her family but he was young then and only interested in fighting alongside father and Ser Arthur.

Egg was knighted on the same day. Egg had been sore about it, convinced he should have been knighted earlier, as the older brother, but he never remained cross with Jon for long. The both of them were too excited to remain at odds.

Ser Arthur had smiled at him--he who so rarely showed any facial expression outside of the Keep. A handsome grin. Rhaenys was seven and ten, her comely features drawing unwanted attention.

“Ser Jon,” she’d teased, hugging his head to her chest.

Aegon had squirmed away instantly but Jon had remained. He hadn’t any mother to hug. Rhaenys was never warm but she was good. It had felt nice.

It’s this memory that he holds onto as he rends a Lannister man across the neck, dodging the arterial spray with habit borne of the long fight.

Lannister’s men had converged at the Blue Fork and the Trident runs red with blood. He’s can’t find Lord Stark, lost him within the first few minutes of battle.

The greatsword Ice had never seemed as threatening as it had when Lord Stark unsheathed it by the river, his face pained.

“Would that I never had to see another boy lose himself to war,” Lord Stark said, and Jon had wanted to embrace him.

A silly, childish feeling. 

Jon fights now, swiping at the blood that obscures his eyes. 

A body stumbles into his back, dead weight, and knocks him into the chest of a man that looks as big as a house. Jon ducks underneath the broad sweep of his sword but the man raises a leg and kicks Jon in the chest, sending him stumbling to one knee.

Jon ducks again, not yet able to regain his footing and his pulse beats dimly in his ears.

_ Up. Get up. You need to get up. You’re prey down here. _

The water comes up to his calves--or is it blood--and Jon distinctly hears the whisper of steel as it passes over his head.

He’d lost his visor at some point during the melee and he’s wearing northern chain, the only man in Targaryen livery.

Jon can hear the man above him laughing, a dull, deep sound, and Jon tucks and rolls, his side colliding with a corpse.

The dead man’s intestines spill out over lifeless hands and Jon doesn’t even have the time to feel ill because his attacker is relentless.

He’s going to die down here. Ser Arthur will never know how many men Jon killed because of his training. Father will never understand how much he loves him.

He’s growing tired and slower for it.

“You run like a rat in a cage, little prince,” the man bellows, loud enough for Jon to hear it over the shriek of the dying.

“Fuck!” Jon yells as the flat of the man’s blade crashes against his shoulder.

He raises his blade to block the next blow, even as he watches the man bring it down with the weight of his massive body. It takes everything Jon has to remain on his knees. He feels as though his shoulders have been ripped from their sockets.

The man raises his blade again and Jon doesn’t think he can rise, doesn’t know if he’s got anymore energy to fight when the man’s eyes widen abruptly. Jon’s attacker opens his mouth, blood spilling from the dark cavern.

Jon hears the squelch of a sword as it is dragged backwards and yet the man doesn’t fall--he whirls around with a scream of rage and Jon flies to his feet as the man stabs his own attacker, shoving his blade through Jon’s rescuer with both meaty hands.

Jon screams.

He raises his sword and brings the tip through the nape of the man’s neck, screwing it in deeper as he yells. He’s screaming wordless things and probably crying but when he feels the blade exit cranium the man drops to one knee and then the next, toppling over onto his side.

He’s so large that the bodies around him quake with the shudder of earth.

Jon sees the gleam of his rescuer’s sword from where it lay on the earth and he swallows bile and blood as he moves around the hulking mass of flesh of the man he’d just killed.

The direwolf head is rubbed slightly smooth with age and Ice lays beside Lord Stark, bloodied all the way to the hilt.

Lord Stark is wheezing, sword hand dancing over his wound like he can’t seem to control the motion.

Jon kneels beside him and applies pressure, even as the sounds of the battle rages on around him. The Valemen are pushing Lannister’s men closer to where the Forks converge into the mouth and Jon knows that they can win. It can be done. 

“Listen to me. Lord Stark, please. Please. I promised your daughter I would watch out for you. I’m to bring you  _ back  _ to her. Please.”

Lord Stark’s mouth opens as though he wants to speak but his hand comes down to rest against where Jon is trying to staunch the flow, blood to blood.

Jon can’t see, tears mixing with the grime on his face, but Lord Stark can’t die. 

“Uncle, please,” Jon says, because it’s so. This is his mother’s brother. A man who came after his sister and could have loved Jon, if given half the chance.

Lord Stark’s hand presses down slightly before it falls slack and Jon’s body convulses.

He wants to sit in the dirt and die alongside him but the only thing better than death is vengeance. He intends to have it. He catches Ice up in his swordhand.

He has a second wind as he moves away from Lord Stark’s body and he saves no room for regret as he continues to cut down any man he sees with a flash of red and gold. The Valemen are easily distinguishable and their forces swallow him whole as he kills more men than he can count.

Ser Arthur told him once that he would find the space in his mind for the killing.

Jon remembers being confused by what he meant.

“What does my mind have to do with anything, Ser Arthur?”

Ser Arthur had laughed but it wasn’t one of his nice ones. It was the laugh his father gave after he got too deep in his cups and placed a hand on Jon’s cheek, whispering  _ Lyanna  _ when he thought no one could hear.

“Killing takes something from a man. You’ve got to reach the place in your own head where it can’t touch you. Then you’ll find out if you’re as good as you think you are.”

Jon is untethered now and he doesn’t realize that he’s still fighting until one of the Valeman takes him by the sword arm. 

Jon is strong and he almost shakes the man loose but the man’s grip tightens.

“Your Grace! Your Grace, please!”

Jon lowers Ice to his side and only then does he realize the weight of it. It’s massive. He’d been swinging it one-handed and he’s sure to feel the brunt of that tomorrow.

Lannister’s men have surrendered.

They’ve been trapped in a half-encirclement by the Knights of the Vale, with the rushing mouth of the Trident forming their only escape route.

It’s strangely silent but for the cries of the wounded and dying and Jon thinks he sees Lord Arryn being helped to his feet, his arm crooked against his chest. Broken, then.

“Where is he!” Jon yells across the field and he’s surprised the Knights of the Vale don’t startle. His men. They’re his bannermen, in service to the King.

“Has the halfman come with you or is he already at King’s Landing?”

Jon raises Ice in threat and motions to the four knights closest to him.

“With me.” 

The men do his bidding silently and suddenly a clear voice rings out, condescending and articulate.

“Save the dramatics, my boy. What am I going to do? Run?”

The halfman appears, his men parting in his wake.

He’s smaller than some children Jon has seen.

This is Tyrion Lannister. He’s never met his Uncle by marriage and never intended to. Father said there was no love lost between the two of them.

“Aye. I don’t know you. I’ll not do you the courtesy of underestimating you.”

Tyrion pauses, scratching at the beard he’s no doubt grown on the road.

“You’re the youngest Targaryen prince, then. Half wolf, half dragon. You’ve got the Stark coloring.”

Jon grits his teeth and moves forward, his four men following close.

“Keep your filthy mouth shut.”

Tyrion raises two gnarled hands in false obeisance. 

“I meant nothing by it, Your Grace. Simply pointing out the obvious. It seems you’ve a great hatred for me. I wonder why that is,” Tyrion hums, crossing his arms over the lion on his mail.

“We’re both of us outcasts, you and I. Living in the shadows of older brothers.”

Jon’s arm is shaking and his knuckles are white around Ice’s hilt.

“I’m not a killer.”

Tyrion raises his arms and turns in a semi-circle, gesturing to the field of blood.

“Aren’t you, though?”

Jon raises Ice now, angling the tip so that it catches slightly in Lannister’s beard.

“You’ve done what you came for. You’ve made battle and spilled blood. Now, it’s my turn. It’s your head I want. My father let you keep it because you were a boy of eight. You’re a man grown now and I’ll have my due.”

Tyrion smiles. “Yes. How chivalrous of King Rhaegar to leave me my House seat and my head. A dwarf of tender age.”

Jon presses Ice closer and it knicks Tyrion in the chin. The dwarf winces but remains unperturbed.

“You could expect him to do no more than you would have in the same situation. Your  _ brother,”  _ Jon spits, “murdered his father.”

Tyrion’s mouth twitches. 

“Aye. And then your father murdered mine. All of this makes us even. I’ve no grand aspirations. I have my father’s brain in a malformed body. The only Lannisters left are still suckling at their mother’s Targaryen teat.”

Tyrion presses forward into the sting of the blade and Jon withdraws it, quick as a whip. Tyrion will have his death on Jon’s terms alone.

“I bided my time. I became a man. If my efforts in securing Darkstar were successful, I’ve got my vengeance.”

Jon’s blood runs cold and he feels his men stiffen alongside him.

“I will not offer you the Black. Your name will be erased from the histories. Your children will not know of you. You will die with your head rolling against the ground like your brother and father before you.”

Tyrion’s small face twists into a snarl and Jon didn’t know he had this much malevolence in him. Maybe he’s always been this thing. This cruel, untouchable dragon. The blood of old Valyria.

“Pretty words from a pretty prince, Your Grace.”

Jon raises Ice above his head. It’s only fitting that the man die by the blade of the man he inadvertently killed.

Tyrion’s eyes flash with what could be fear or triumph, Jon knows not, and he bows his head.

His men unsheath their swords alongside him, just in case Lannister has one more card to play.

Jon has never executed a man before, though he’s seen Ilyn Payne do so on several occasions.

Ser Arthur is in his head and he finds that space again. The Killing Place.

The Valyrian steel is seamless and it affords Tyrion a much cleaner death than he deserves. It slices through flesh and tendon and bone and Lannister’s grotesque head tumbles away, stopping just short of falling into the river.

Jon wipes Ice on the grass at his feet and rises, sparing no last glance for Lannister’s deformed body.

He’s sure the killing will haunt his dreams. He thought he would feel absolution for Lord Stark but it did not bring the man back.

The only thing he has left of him is Ice. He will bring it to Sansa on bended knee if he has to. It’s her brother’s now. The new Lord of Winterfell.

Jon turns the men surrounding him. “Gather Lord Stark’s body. I want it and a raven sent North.”

The youngest of the four nods, his hair still falling in sweet curls upon his forehead.

“Lay down your weapons!” Jon yells to the captured bannermen, and some of them already have. The rest look at him skeptically. They’ve just seen him murder their liege lord.

“No harm will come to you if you surrender peacefully.” Jon pauses. “I made no such promise to Lord Lannister.”

Jon turns away after his proclamation, only to see Jon Arryn struggling to remain upright.

Ice is too large for his regular scabbard and so he sets her gently in the grass as he pushes his shoulder underneath Lord Arryn’s bulk.

The Valemen are coming to Jon’s aid, probably in preparation to take Lord Arryn to the maesters.

“My Lord,” Jon says, grunting under Arryn’s weight.

“Ned has been killed, then?” Lord Arryn says, his breath coming in gasps.

“Aye, my lord. It was me he died defending. His family should know I gave Lannister his end.”

Lord Arryn’s face twists painfully.

“Ned Stark was the finest man I ever knew. Don’t tell them of how he died. No family deserves to hear that.”

_ No child deserves that memory,  _ Jon thinks. He remembers the sorrowful way Ser Arthur had said it. His mother, bleeding to death with him cradled in her arms.

Jon’s throat is hot and tight.

“Make haste to the crownlands, Your Grace,” Lord Arryn says, his voice firm over the honorific in a way that gives Jon pause.

“If what Lannister says is true, they’ll need you there. We’ll take care of Ned’s remains.”

Lord Arryn claps him on the back as his Knights take most of his weight.

Jon presses two fingers to his mouth and whistles for Vermithor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo. please don't hate me lol (but next chapter our lovebirds are reunited so hopefully that lessens your rightful anger towards me)
> 
> also, my dumbass had to up the chapter count. What is left will not fit in ten chapters. I honestly can't believe this grew out of a fever dream I had of Ser Arthur escaping with Jon JUST before Ned made it to the Tower of Joy lmfao


	9. Chapter 9

Sansa

301 AC

“You need to see the Maester.”

Rhaenys glances up at Sansa, her hair hanging in limp curls.

“I do not. It’s hot this morning and I hate rice pudding. Aegon knows it, he’s just too kingly to care if the kitchens keep serving it.”

Sansa exchanges a glance with Wylla but Wylla only rolls her eyes heavenward and continues on her cross-stitch.

“Your hands are doing better,” Sansa tries, indicating the soft gauze that the princess has finally been allowed to remove.

“I still can’t believe you rode hard for weeks with no gloves.”

Rhaenys flops backwards so that she lands on Sansa’s bed with a bounce.

“Yes, well, I was racing to war. I didn’t think to grab them.”

It’s Sansa’s turn to sigh and she does so loudly as she crosses over to the window. She is in a tower room and it overlooks the massive sprawl of King’s Landing. She’s only pleased she can’t smell the filth from here.

“You could stop being an ass for a second or two and talk about what’s really bothering you,” Sansa says, her voice deceptively calm. If Rhaenys were Arya they’d already be fighting. Well, Robb would be holding Arya back by the skirts.

“You’re really too pretty to be using that kind of language,” Rhaenys says dully and Sansa crosses over to her bed and sits down on the edge so she can look down on the princess.

“Yes, that’s what you say every time I get cross with you. Listen to me. Aegon--” Sansa pauses, clearing her throat at the name.

Rhaenys stiffens but remains otherwise motionless. 

“King Aegon isn’t going to let you leave the Keep unless it’s on the arm of a husband. You’ve fought him every day since the Battle of the Lion Gate.” Sansa takes Rhaenys’ hand in hers.

“I fear the only reason you’re still alive is because you’re his sister.”

Rhaenys’ fingers tighten around Sansa’s, almost in spasm.

“He’s waiting for Jon to return,” Rhaenys says derisively. “He’s a child made King. Still clamoring for someone to support him since I won’t let him hide behind my skirts any longer.”

Rhaenys face flushes and she sits straight up, her back supported by Sansa’s pillows.

“DID YOU HEAR THAT AEGON? EVERYONE YOU EVER LOVED HAS DIED!”

Wylla stands, her needlework pressed to her chest in fear and Sansa flings herself bodily over the princess’ lap in a way she wouldn’t have dared do four weeks ago.

“You know that whatever guard the King has stationed in the hall will tell him what you’ve said,” Sansa says and Rhaenys brings her fists to her eyes and bursts into sudden and uncontrollable tears.

Sansa moves backwards, landing hard on her bottom and Wylla exhales so gustily that Sansa turns to look at her.

Sansa’s never seen Rhaenys cry before. When she’d first told the princess of her mother’s death, Rhaenys’ face had gone pale as bone and she staggered into a chair. She hadn’t cried then, at least not in front of Sansa.

“Rhaenys,” Sansa whispers. “Please. You’ve been having fainting spells. If we have to wait for Jon to come back, I’ll make him carry you there myself!”

Sansa envelopes her in a hug and Rhaenys’ body sags into the embrace.

“I’ll go. I’ll go. Don’t tell Jon about Egg when he returns,” Rhaenys pleads and Sansa bites her lip.

King Aegon has forestalled his coronation and denied all offers for his small council. He won’t speak to Rhaenys, probably because she lobbies daily for Ser Arthur’s release in between bouts of castigation that would burn the ears of all the whores in Flea Bottom.

“He should know what’s happened when he comes home, Your Grace,” Sansa argues and Rhaenys nods, her dark hair spilling over one shoulder.

Wylla has retaken her seat but her eyes glance every so often at Sansa’s closed door.

“I’ll tell him myself,” Rhaenys says, her voice barely above a whisper.

She’s so uncharacteristically soft that Sansa wants to ask the maester to make the trip here.

There have been ravens from the Vale since the Second Battle of the Trident but neither she nor Rhaenys has been able to intercept them.

Sansa sups with King Aegon every evening and his talk is banal, though he does inquire after her well-being. Sansa thinks of Jon’s soft curls and flushes scarlet when she remembers the worn scrolls she carries everywhere. 

She knows Aegon will wed her as soon as Jon returns; he’s only cares for the advice of his brother, now that King Rhaegar has died.

Just the thought pains her. She thinks of her own father and hopes that both he and Jon make the trip safely. They’ve been gone for months now and the waiting is interminable.

King Aegon won’t leave the Keep except to patrol with Ser Crabb and a few trusted goldcloaks.

She wonders if he’ll allow her to leave when they’re married. She stifles her own tears when she realizes he may never permit her to see her family again.

Mother, Arya, Robb, Bran and little Rickon, away in the North. Maybe Aegon will let her attend their weddings.

Rhaenys raises her head as she gathers that Sansa is crying too and swipes ineffectually at her eyes.

“Come. It’s past noon and Pycelle may be stuffing himself with sweetmeats or stuffing his old cock into one of Ros’ whores.”

Sansa sputters her indignation and even Wylla makes a scandalized sound but Rhaenys laughs, honest to gods throws her head back in mirth and Sansa rubs at her hot ear.

“You’ve the foulest mouth of any I ever met, and sometimes my little sister and I would sneak to the feasts in the Great Hall past bedtime.”

“I just want to catch one of the other maesters. Pycelle would love to go running to Egg.”

Rhaenys stands quickly, swaying once on her feet, and drags her fingers messily through her hair.

She’s often quite lovely when she tries but she can’t seem to be bothered recently. It’s only Sansa’s demands that she be appropriately clothed that keep the princess from running the Keep like a bastard child.

“Wylla, you must tackle her if she tries to run off,” Sansa teases, just loudly enough for Rhaenys to hear.

“I’m not fast enough and Rhaenys is like to trip me out of sport.”

Wylla laughs, tucking her needlework into the corner of Sansa’s vanity.

“I’ll send Ser Crabb after her. I’d like to see him try and stop her without touching her at all,” Wylla says.

Rhaenys is muttering under her breath and Sansa is pinning up a loose curl when a heavy fist comes crashing against the door, followed a surprisingly female voice.

“Seven Hells,” Rhaenys murmurs and even Sansa’s eyes widen.

“Come in,” Sansa obliges and a serving girl nudges the door open with her eyes averted, as though she might find them in the nude.

“My ladies. Your Grace,” she says, stuttering over the words, most likely dumbfounded in the presence of highborn ladies, “a v-visitor would like to speak with Lady Sansa.”

Sansa’s eyes rise to her hairline.

“With me?!” She repeats and the serving girl opens her fist to expose the two gold dragons in her palm.

Ah. Someone highborn, then. 

Rhaenys catches her arm but Sansa smiles at her and uncurls her fingers.

“I’ll go and see who it is. If it’s anything untoward, I’ll scream.”

Rhaenys opens her mouth to protest but Sansa thinks she has an idea of who it might be and can’t help but feel a little thrill at the illicit nature of it.

The girl retreats just enough for Sansa to slip out of her door, and when a broad hand closes almost immediately around her wrist she chokes down a scream.

Jon’s eyes become visible in the dim corridor and Sansa has to clap her hands over her mouth in abject joy.

The girl has disappeared, hopefully with all the gold dragons Jon can spare, and Sansa smiles up at him, getting her first good look in quite some time.

He has a raw pink scar intersected by his eye, though it looks mostly faded.

His beard is thicker than it was when he’d left but it looks as though he’s had a recent shave before arriving at the capital.

He has yet to move his hand from her wrist and it’s calloused in that peculiar way of men who fight often.

Robb and Father had hands like that and Bran’s own fingers had become roughened just before Sansa had ridden South.

Now Sansa flips his hand and runs two fingers over blood blisters, stopping when Jon winces under the scrutiny.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” she blushes, “but you’ve been hurt! They’ve sent ravens from Riverrun and the Eyrie. The Reach was prepared to march if you hadn’t won at the Trident.”

Sansa’s voice peters to a halt and Jon releases her wrist only to catch her by both hands.

“I sent you letters,” he says, looking so earnest that Sansa can feel her skin flush with heat.

“Aye, you did,” she replies, looking down so that her hair topples over her shoulder.

“I’ve kept them,” Sansa admits, patting down her skirts below the waist where Wylla had helped her sew the false pockets.

“I know it’s sentimental but they meant so much to me and I’ve never--I’ve never had anyone say the things you did,” Sansa whispers, and Jon nudges her chin up with two fingers, his smile distant on his face.

He looks tired, Sansa thinks, but deeper than exhaustion. Bone-weary, even. He looks at though he would like to stop being.

“I kept yours too,” Jon says, and a thrill shivers down Sansa’s spine. She feels ill and rejuvenated all at once and she thinks that this is something she should’ve asked Septa Mordane about when she was at home.

“I wrote a great many things I probably shouldn’t have written to a lady,” Jon says sheepishly, his head bowed over hers. “It wasn’t even half of what I wanted to say to you but I’m not good at words,” he adds, his nervousness apparent.

Sansa takes mercy on him, her face hot. “Why have you come to meet me like a thief in the night,” she teases, sensing that Jon won’t-- _ can’t _ \--say more on the topic.

Jon’s face twists, the same way it had when he’d told her that he didn’t want to kill a man.

“Sansa.”

His hands tighten on hers and Sansa is filled with the desire to drag them free of his clutch.

Sometimes, it’s easier to play at being empty-headed. It’s always served her well when she was listening for gossip to share with Arya later. Now she shakes her head so violently that it begins to ache and Jon eliminates the already shrunken space between their bodies.

“Sansa, please--”

“Where is my father,” Sansa says dully, her fingers white in Jon’s grip. She tries to move them one at a time, her index down to the thumb and Jon doesn’t seem to notice.

“I’ve brought you Ice,” Jon says helplessly, and Sansa looks up.

His eyes are red rimmed, she can see that now. His hair is tied up in a knot on his head and his thumbs rub restlessly against her palms.

“Lannister’s host was over thirty thousand strong. Please,” Jon says, his voice desperate. It makes her stomach curl and her eyes burn, a fire beneath her lashes.

“Yes, tell us about Lord Stark. The knights of the Vale are eating in my kitchens but Lord Stark is not amongst them.”

Sansa’s spine stiffens but it’s nothing like the way Jon straightens, dropping her hands and placing an appropriate distance between them.

It’s too late for that now. Their foreheads had been all but touching and there is no telling how long King Aegon was listening. 

Sansa can’t summon the appropriate fear in the moment. She tugs at her fingers, one by one, pulling them until the joints make soft  _ pops  _ that only she can hear.

Jon rests one hand on the hilt of his sword. 

“Egg?” Jon says, both pleased and confused at the greeting.

“Brother,” King Aegon says, his crown sitting heavily on his brow. 

Jon’s eyes flick to it and Sansa can see the moment he realizes that something is amiss.

“That’s father’s crown, Egg,” Jon says carefully. Jon always speaks carefully to his brother, long before Sansa realized it needed to be done. They know one another best.

“Aye. You’d have the right of it if you’d seen fit to come visit me first,” Aegon says. King Rhaegar’s crown suits him better than the dragonhead one that he had worn to first meet her.

Sansa thinks of the bulky thing, winking in the hot summer sun. Even Father had looked at it askance. There was no like in the North.

This one is Valyrian steel, inlaid with seven rubies for the Faith. It looks more similar to Jon’s crown and it sits on Aegon’s head like air.

Jon squints. 

“What I had to tell Lady Stark will soon be public knowledge. I thought it would be right that she heard it from me and not from Maester Pycelle reading her a misspelled raven’s scroll,” Jon says hotly and Aegon steps closer, into the light.

The corridor is now awash with noonday color and Sansa wonders how he made it to the ladies’ half of the Keep with such haste.

The King probably has access to all the Keep’s secrets, Sansa thinks.

“That her father was killed by one of Clegane’s sons at the Trident? That’s what you crept from the shadows to tell her?”

Sansa’s body stiffens and she can’t help it, she stumbles backward until her shoulder clips the wall behind her and most likely bruises it horribly.

Jon turns to her at the proclamation, his entire face shorn of color.

“Sansa,” he breathes, and King Aegon makes a sound.

“Brother. You forget your manners and yourself. She’s to be your Queen,” Aegon says softly, and Jon meets her eyes in horror.

“Or would you rather her be something else entirely?” Aegon muses, hands clasped behind his broad back.

The King’s hair is braided in the Valyrian fashion and Sansa thinks he looks very lovely and very cruel.

“Where is father, Egg,” Jon says shortly, and Aegon steps so close that the brothers can stare one another in the eye.

“Buried in the Holy Sept next to Grandfather and my mother,” Aegon says, his voice disarmingly soft.

Jon makes a noise like death but he manages to stand his ground even as Sansa’s eyes dart around helplessly.

“How.” Jon grits out, his voice tight. Sansa can see the fine tremble of his body but King Aegon either doesn’t notice or he doesn’t care.

“Your precious Ser Arthur, Sword of the Morning, got to him just after Darkstar sliced Dark Sister through our father’s skull.”

Jon’s fist tightens at his side and he dares not look at Sansa but Sansa remains pressed up against the wall adjacent to her bedroom, willing Rhaenys to stay inside the four walls.

“There must’ve been a reason. Ser Arthur would have never left father exposed. They were best--best friends,” Jon says haltingly and Sansa is suddenly afraid that he will cry. Her own eyes are dry but she stands straight against the wall and allows her sleeves to fall over clasped hands.

“The reason was failure, Jon,” King Aegon says, and Sansa looks at him when Jon’s body seems to crumple under the weight of the words.

“I want to see him, Egg. I want to talk to him. You haven’t spoken with him, I know you haven’t. I want to know.”

King Aegon makes a humming sound.

“Do you love me, brother?”

Jon is taken aback and his hand drops from his hilt.

“Aye, brother. And after what you told me, it’s only you I have left.”

Aegon smiles but it isn’t like the smiles he gave before the war, nor the crazed ones he gave her and Rhaenys just after. 

“Then if you love me so, how is it that you’ve decided to treat me like a fool?”

Aegon’s voice rises and Jon’s body somehow loosens at the sound.

“Egg-”

“I am Aegon, Sixth of His Name, of House Targaryen, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, brother, and I asked you a question.”

Sansa can feel her own pulse click in the tight clutch of her jaw.

Jon steps closer to his brother, his hands open and tone beseeching.

“Aegon, then. You were born to rule. How could I think you a fool? You know me, brother.”

Aegon laughs. “Aye. I waited for you to return because our sister pleads for Dayne’s life and there’s no man within these city gates that I trust, save you.”

Jon nods. “And I you. I didn’t know that father was.” Jon stops, his throat almost closing on the words.

“I didn’t know. I’m here now, Egg. It’s me. It’s always been me.”

Aegon scrubs a hand over his face and Sansa takes a deep breath.

“There’s nothing in this City that goes on that I don’t know about. Nothing in the Seven Kingdoms. I knew you’d taken Tyrion Lannister’s head almost the minute you severed it from his malformed body. I counted your gold dragons in the serving girl’s apron pocket and I watched you meet my betrothed in darkness.”

“Egg.”

“I saw him when he died, what Darkstar did to his face. I had him carried to the Sept of Baelor.”

“Egg, please--”

“It was me our sister slapped in the throne room. I waited for coronation because I wanted you by my side.”

Aegon withdraws his sword from scabbard and Sansa can’t help the gasp she makes. It’s Blackfyre, King Rhaegar’s sword passed to his son.

She’s seen pictures of it during lessons. Arya was always more partial to Dark Sister, but now it’s been used to kill a King.

Jon staggers backwards, almost falling into Sansa’s body.

“Aegon, I won’t fight you,” Jon says, a little desperately.

“Ser Arthur taught us both. You’ve never been shy about sparring before.”

Jon steps in front of her, his gaze passing over her as quick as water in a sieve. Sansa wordlessly obliges, angling her body behind his as Jon begins circling his brother.

“This is madness. I’ve just returned from war. You’ve held King’s Landing. You’re my  _ brother, _ ” Jon pleads, and Aegon slashes at Jon’s chest carelessly, just slow enough to indicate harmlessness.

“And yet, you betrayed me.”

Jon’s shoulders crumble and Sansa wants to reach for him when he reaches for his own hilt, drawing Ice out with a high whine of Valyrian steel.

It’s enough to force the tears Sansa can feel at the back of her throat but her eyes remain dry against all reason. Her nails dig into her palms and Jon does look at her this time, apology in his eyes.

Aegon’s face twists.

“I am your King,” Aegon says. 

He rushes forward like a snake and it’s quite like the first time Sansa saw them duel in the Dragonpit, when father had kept a hand on her shoulder and the brothers had laughed with every hit. 

Jon gives her a wide berth and swings Ice singlehandedly. The impact rings so loudly that Sansa drops to her knees with ears covered and Jon glances back at her with the sound. 

Her door flies open in the same instant and Rhaenys comes tumbling out with Wylla close behind. 

Both ladies look as though they’ve had a bit of a struggle and it’s enough to make Sansa almost smile. Wylla probably had a time trying to keep the Princess indoors. 

It helps that Rhaenys is small, but even that is no match for her temper. 

King Aegon pauses only to adjust his crown and Rhaenys’ faces reddens and pales in the span of a few seconds. 

Jon makes no attempts to attack, raising Ice warily to block the next blow. 

Rhaenys’ fists are clenched so tightly that she’s shaking and Wylla has one hand on the princess’ shoulder. 

“Stop.”

Sansa barely hears herself the first time and neither do the Targaryen princes but the next time is louder and she rises to her feet. 

“Stop! I said, stop!”

Jon’s curls have escaped onto his forehead and Sansa realizes for the first time that his livery is stained with old blood, browned against the vibrant red of the three-headed dragon. 

Her vision swims for a moment and she wonders if it’s her father’s blood. She wonders how he died, if he was alone and if there was anyone to hold him at the end. 

Now is not the time to ask and she may never know, but what she does know is that King Aegon will no longer bear slights. 

Jon’s attentions to her frighten the King and that makes things very, very dangerous. 

Jon looks as though he’s going to speak and Sansa clasps her hands behind her back in the male fashion. 

“I am loyal to my beloved Aegon,” Sansa says and this time it is Rhaenys who looks at her, dark blue eyes squinted in disbelief. 

“Sansa Stark,” she begins but Sansa ignores her, walking past Jon with a stiff neck and stiffer spine. 

“I came South to wed him. My father may be dead,” she grits out, “but that doesn’t mean that my duties have died with him.”

Aegon holds Blackfyre by his side, tight in one broad fist. 

Sansa doesn’t stop walking until she’s standing by Aegon’s side and he looks down, clear across the top of her head. 

He’s very handsome like this, she thinks absently, a fairy tale prince with fire in his cheeks and his blood. 

Jon holds Ice as though he holds an anvil and he sheathes the greatsword with a steady hand. 

Rhaenys scoffs into the silence. 

“Aegon, this is mad. Talk to us. We’ll send everyone away, you’ll see. This isn’t—it isn’t  _ right,  _ Egg.”

Rhaenys’ voice wavers and she curls her arms around her middle, looking uncharacteristically vulnerable. 

Sansa tucks her hair behind her ear and tries to meet Rhaenys’ eyes. 

_ Please. Let me do this. It’s what father would do and there’s no one but me left to do it for him.  _

King Aegon looks down at her again, reaching one hand out to gently twirl red curls in between index and thumb. 

Sansa can feel the soft warmth of his breath as he observes her. 

“Aegon Targaryen,” Rhaenys says, shrugging Wylla off so that she can walk to the empty space between her younger brothers, “by the Seven. What would father say?”

Sansa feels the King go rigid; it’s the wrong thing to say and he ignores his sister entirely. 

“Father brought Lady Stark south for me to wed,” he says to Jon and Jon nods tightly. 

“Aye, Your Grace.”

It makes something soft inside of Sansa harden to hear Jon speak so tonelessly and she wonders if she’s done a terrible thing. 

“All this time,” Aegon says, “I’ve been making decisions as though father were here. But it’s time to make the decisions father would’ve wanted.”

Jon doesn’t look at Sansa again but it’s her turn to look at him. Even Rhaenys is nearly motionless, her normally warm skin almost translucent.

“My sister,” Aegon says, and Rhaenys raises her chin defiantly.

“Your Grace,” she hisses and Sansa winces. If a tone could scald, King Aegon would be burnt to a crisp.

“Father wanted you wed. It falls to me to complete that desire.” Aegon begins to play absently with Sansa’s hair again and Sansa forces herself to relax in his hold. She can’t reconcile his energy with the man she first met.

“Aegon--” Rhaenys says and all mockery has left her voice.

“Dragons marry dragons, sweet sister. That’s how it’s been since before the Doom. Our grandparents were both of Targaryen blood. Who better for you to wed than Jon, who has told me that he loves me, and if he loves his brother it stands to reason that he loves you too?”

Sansa’s heart constricts in her chest. She allows her eyes to meet the floor--if they lift any higher, King Aegon will see the rage he has inspired and will know he takes a wild animal to bed instead of the fragile thing he’s always believed her.

“Aegon, you’re mad. You’ve gone mad. Father would’ve married me to Jon years ago if that--if that’s what he wanted.” Rhaenys rushes forward, grabbing at Aegon’s wrist. She hasn’t touched him since she slapped him and Aegon turns impassive eyes downward.

“With father dead, there must be nothing to tear us apart, Rhaenys. Nothing except fire and blood.”

Rhaenys raises her fist but then Jon is by her side, dragging her hand into his own. She refuses to uncurl her fingers so he stands awkwardly holding her clenched palm to his chest.

“Rhaenys,” he murmurs. “It’s what Egg wants. Aegon is King,” he says, and Aegon smiles, just a bit.

“Well now that you’ve got everything squared away, Your Holiness,” Rhaenys says, her voice thick with tears, “what do you plan to do with the Sword of the Morning? You can’t mean to let father’s best friend rot below Traitor’s Walk.”

Sansa places a small hand on Aegon’s forearm.

“Maybe you should speak to your small council about this,” Sansa says and Jon meets her eye like a passing wind. 

Jon seems to tighten his grip on his sister, if only to tell her to shut her mouth.

“I’ll serve him the King’s Justice, sister. I will promise you that.”

Rhaenys makes a sound so small that Sansa thinks she may have imagined it. She turns her body into Jon’s chest and his arms encircle her with such familiarity that Sansa feels the same bile that rose in her when Aegon exposed her father’s death.

She wants to speak with Jon about it the way he had planned, silent and soft in the dark, but she’s not been permitted time to grieve and she will never have it. 

Father lost his best friend and sister within days of one another and was then forced to ride to the Capital to swear his fealty to a man he must have loathed.

_ He did it,  _ Sansa thinks, even as Aegon guides her away with a palm to the small of her back.

“I’ll have my mother’s rooms in the Holdfast appointed for you,” he says softly, mistaking her silence for nerves.

_ The room I watched your mother die in?  _

“Aye, Your Grace. Thank you, Your Grace. You’ve been most kind.”

Aegon comes to a halt as they turn the corner leading to the Iron Throne and Sansa almost collides into the King’s side.

“I’m not mad, Sansa, or any of the things my sister and brother probably think of me now.”

Sansa purses her lips. “Your Grace?”

“Do you know what it means to be King, Sansa?”

Sansa shakes her head. How could she? She was bred to be what she is; the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

“No. I wouldn’t think so. Neither does Rhaenys, nor Jon, though he has a better idea than most. They never had to carry the weight of it, only its shadow. They can’t make my decisions for me, as often as they’ve tried.”

He smiles a little, still startlingly lovely, and Sansa feels a sad clench in her chest.

“They’re your brother and sister, Your Grace,” Sansa attempts. “They love you. They want. They want things as they’ve always been.”

King Aegon runs a hand through his hair and seems to remember his crown at the last instant, drawing his hand back to his side.

“Impossible. A fairy-tale,” Aegon says, running a hand down the soft skin of Sansa’s cheek. “I hope you’ll share the like with our children someday.”

Sansa thinks about her belly, full of babes with violet eyes and curled dark hair. Her eyes flutter open from where they’d unintentionally closed.

“Aye, Your Grace. Someday.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all Sansa this time, folks. this is. probably not the reunion you'd envisioned lmfao


	10. Chapter 10

Arthur

301 AC

When Jon was five and Aegon six, they accompanied Rhaegar on their first summer progress. Neither of them could sit a horse well but Aegon was too impatient to try and learn better and Jon demanded that he only be set astride a horse with Rhaegar or Arthur for safety.

Eventually, Rhaegar designed saddles for them both, a portable little chair meant to help them keep their seat.

Aegon galloped on his pony but Jon had been frightened at the outset, which gave Arthur pause. Jon was not an especially courageous boy, no one is born a hero, but he often faced his fears with the determination of a child yet unafraid to fail.

“Look,” Arthur said, motioning to Aegon. “Your brother keeps a handsome seat. Should he ride to war and leave you behind?”

Jon had a sweeter face than Aegon in those days, due in part to the tight ringlets of his hair. He must’ve resembled his mother as a babe.

“Egg would never leave me and go to war alone,” Jon said stubbornly, and Arthur had pulled his own horse to a halt next to the boy.

“How will you keep up if you never learn to ride?”

Jon’s small mouth pursed, hands still soft with baby fat grasping at the reins.

“When I’m big, I’ll keep up. I’ll be as big as father and he never falls from his horse.”

Arthur smothered a laugh. “Aye, child. But when he and I were young we both fell many a time before we learned to keep our seats. It was the falling that taught us.”

“What if I ride away and never return? When Father went away to war, Mama never came back to him.”

Arthur hasn’t told the boy of his mother’s last days and he doubts Rhaegar will ever have the wherewithal to do it himself.

“If you never try, you’ll never know,” Arthur said.

Jon didn’t ride until Aegon’s goading became too much, but Arthur considers that memory now, locked on the top floor of the dungeons in relative comfort.

“We’ve kept it as clean as we can,” Ser Crabb admits when he comes to deliver Arthur’s meals. 

“The King wouldn’t want anything less. No black cells for you, Ser.”

So Arthur is kept in pampered captivity. They’d taken Dawn, as they were right to do, but not without profuse apologies. He’s the last Kingsguard from Aerys’ court and Rhaegar’s closest confidant. 

Was his closest confidant. 

Every time Arthur closes his eyes he can see it: his best friend laid to waste on the battlefield, his face skewered open. 

He’ll never know what Darkstar said to provoke Rhaegar so, and he doesn’t think he’d survive the telling. 

He had taken immeasurable restraint in his capture but they’d tied his hands when ushering him down Traitor’s Walk, avoiding his gaze all the while.

Arthur was there when Crabb was knighted and the boy had held his starsword with reverence.

He should’ve fought to keep it. He should have explained himself better to Aegon. 

Arthur slumps down in one of the two chairs allotted to him. The room itself is tastefully appointed, if a little macabre. The walls are swathed in red and each chair is upholstered with matching cushions.

When it’s cold, there’s space for a fire in the grate.

Not a poor way to die after all.

He allows his mind to wander to Jon. Manning and Crabb tell him the day and time as often as they are able but their job is to attend to the King, first and foremost. 

There are others jockeying for the King’s favor, soldiers who once flourished under Arthur’s command who now eschew it.

It’s not right, robbing a man of his house sword. Aegon is not without honor, Arthur thinks dully. He’ll give it to Ashara.

Arthur’s not one to sit immobile, feeling sorry for himself, but there’s naught else to do. If Jon were here--

If Jon were here, he’d abide by the laws of his King. Rhaegar raised him to aid his brother in all things, even this. 

The worst of it is that he was not permitted to see his old friend laid to rest. No matter the circumstances, it can never be said that Arthur didn’t love Rhaegar.

He would have served him to the death and he ensured that Darkstar received his.

Arthur stands, moving to the tower window.

The Eyrie boasts sky cells, with an exposed fourth wall so that prisoners have a view of the death that awaits should they choose to escape.

If Arthur were a much smaller man he’d be able to fit through the opening but he too would tumble to his end.

He stretches an arm out anyway, desperate for the breeze. In some ways, he longs for the King’s Justice. At least then he’ll see the sun.

Arthur’s back stiffens as he hears a clatter on the stairs leading to his room. He reaches for his hilt out of habit and when his palm hits nothing but air he undoes his cloak and tightens his fists in replacement.

Most of Aegon’s boys are green; the men grown must have long since returned to their lands. There’s another disturbance and what sounds like a grunt and then the bars locking his door from the outside slowly slide to the side.

The figure that enters is cloaked entirely, bearing the stature of a child. 

Arthur reluctantly lets his guard down, taking a slow step forward.

The figure closes the door quickly and throws the hood from its face.

Arthur catches himself against the wooden table, his lower back taking the brunt of his poor balance.

“Princess,” he says, and Rhaenys smiles tightly in response.

“As much as I would love to exchange pleasantries with you, I don’t have much time.” She pauses, her little mouth pursed. 

“You don’t have much time. Jon’s come home and he’s been fighting with Egg to come and speak with you. Aegon is not...himself, Arthur. I don’t know that he’ll allow it. Not like he once would have.”

Arthur had given up on seeing her again. He knew that escorting her to the gates could be the last time he laid eyes on her, like as it was that he would fall in battle protecting her father.

He wishes that had been the outcome. The only one who should have died for Westeros should have been him.

Her hair is undone, strands sticking to pink cheeks. She must’ve ran all the way here.

“Crabb was on guard duty. He won’t tell Egg,” she muses, holding up the bottom of her cloak so that she can pace in the small area.

“Rhaenys, why have you come,” he says, the words coming out harshly despite his best intentions.

Rhaenys narrows dark eyes at him.

“Why have I come? Did you think we’d just leave you here to die?” Her hands tremble, rustling the fabric that conceals them.

“The only reason Jon isn’t here is because he would be more suspicious. No one expects anything of me.”

“It will be more difficult now,” Arthur admits, sinking into the same chair from which he had first risen.

“What, Arthur? What will be harder?”

Arthur reaches blindly for her hands and she clutches them desperately, her palms almost smooth after her arduous journey by horse.

“Leaving you, now that you’ve come. Tell Jon to obey his King. Tell him not to come and see me.”

Rhaenys’ hands spasm in his hold.

“We won’t  _ leave  _ you here. Jon’s--Jon’s trying to reason with Egg. He’s always loved Jon best,” Rhaenys says, and Arthur looks up at the resignation in her tone.

“Don’t look so shocked,” she teases, though it sounds more like a curse.

“They might as well have been born twins. We will not leave you here to rot.”

Arthur looks at her, really looks, and sees the smear of dark under his eyes, hidden by the high color in her cheeks. She looks pale, as though she’s been sick recently.

“And you’ll run yourself ragged in the process,” Arthur says, rubbing a thumb underneath one eye.

She trembles at the touch and he wonders blankly if there will ever be another to touch her so carefully once he’s gone.

He has no right to her. He never did. It’s the sin of what he did that cost Rhaegar his life. The Seven are just.

His throat tightens and Rhaenys wiggles a hand free so that she can rest it atop his bowed head. Standing between his knees, they are almost of a height and Arthur laughs wetly when he feels the negligible weight of her palm.

“Jon and I know all the passageways from the Keep,” she says desperately. “Just give us some time. I can--I can organize it. I’ve been speaking with Sansa. Jon won’t like it but Sansa’s already agreed to distract Aegon if we need her to. She wants to help. We all want to help.”

Arthur’s never heard Rhaenys sound so young before. It’s the desperation, he thinks. It makes fools of us all.

“Dear one,” Arthur says, and she flushes the same pink that she had when he’d peeled her naked and spread her on his furs.

He can’t regret his time with her. He can only regret the cost of it.

“Be quiet,” she snaps, her hand tightening in his hair.

“Don’t give up. Jon has the support of the northmen after he did battle with them.” She pauses, reluctant to continue.

“He slew Tyrion Lannister after his man killed Lord Stark. They’ll help us. We can smuggle you out of the city, through the black cells.”

Arthur’s head snaps up at the pronouncement.

He thinks of his boy, his little Jon, his in every way that matters. Arthur existed in the space where Jon had no mother and now Jon has lost both of them, he and Rhaegar, in one swift blow.

He’s a man grown. He’s seen battle and he’s killed men. He’s acted on behalf of the King and delivered his justice, only to come home and find that same King dead.

“Is he...is he well, Rhaenys?”

Rhaenys laughs, the sound like broken glass. 

“He doesn’t sleep. He only eats if Sansa or I beg him. He might’ve been alright if you--” she cuts herself off ruthlessly but Arthur doesn’t need her to finish. He already knows the cost of his actions.

“Listen to me!” Rhaenys begs. “We will free you. I swear it. I swear it before Mother, Maiden and the blasted Crone.”

Her eyes are wet and Arthur gives in to temptation one last time.

He pulls her into his body, holding her tightly as she cries. He drops kisses down against her hair and she remains almost motionless throughout.

“I can’t run, Rhaenys.” He says it with his chin pressed to the crown of her head, tightening his grip as she begins to struggle in anger.

“You can!” she says, muffled into his chest. “You can and you will.”

She draws back to stare him in the eye.

“I swore an oath,” Arthur says, one callused thumb wiping her tears.

“I swore an oath before the Gods and men and I’ve already failed once. I won’t do so again. Your brother is King. His wishes are mine.”

Rhaenys’ brow furrows. 

“It is my  _ fault  _ that father is dead. It’s because of me that you couldn’t ride to him in time, that he had to fight Darkstar alone.”

Rhaenys is trembling now and Arthur’s eyes widen.

“Gods--Rhaenys, battles happen all the time. You couldn’t have known any of this would come to pass!”

Rhaenys shakes her head, fisting Arthur’s cloak at the same time.

“Listen to me. My father is dead because of  _ me. _ I wanted to play at war so I didn’t tell my brothers were I was going or else they would have forbade it.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Rhaenys, no. We needed that information. Aegon and Jon couldn’t risk a raven. Because of you we coordinated our battle plans. It was not a waste.”

“I could have sent a soldier in my stead. A goldcloak. I did it because I wanted father to see me. Because of me, he’ll never see anything else at all.”

Arthur wants to shake her. She looks sickly and she doesn’t bother raising her voice or meeting his eyes. She’s decided all of this a long time ago.

“I wouldn’t have trusted that information to anyone but you or your brothers,” Arthur says dully, fighting to the last. 

“I know what I did, Arthur,” she says, reaching a hand up to cup his cheek, consoling him.

“I can’t let anyone else die because of me.”

Arthur rests his hands on the soft cut of her hips, concealed by her cloak. He’s going to disappoint her.

“And I can’t leave, Your Grace. My word is my bond until I die. Anything less would make me a coward.”

Rhaenys opens her mouth as though she intends to argue further but she must see it in his eyes because her body sags against his in the same breath.

“I understand.”

Arthur releases her, already bereft as she pulls up her hood.

“You deserve to be saved, Arthur,” she says, stretching up to press a lingering kiss to his mouth. He makes a sound he is ashamed of, all hunger and thirst and want, and she makes a wet sound against his lips.

He can’t help the way he clings to her warm body, even covered from head to toe as she is. She’s a gift he never expected to get and one he always knew he wasn’t meant to keep.

She steps away from him, perhaps sensing that at the end, he’s too weak to do so himself. She turns away from him with a little nod to herself and knocks smartly at the door to his prison.

The eyehole opens slightly and then slams closed, the door widening just enough to allow the princess through.

When it shuts behind her, it feels as though the King’s Justice has already been served.

-

Rhaenys

301 AC

Rhaenys Targaryen has two brothers and two dead parents.

She is the oldest of three and the least of these, due first and foremost to the cunt between her legs.

She cups a hand over her stomach as she walks, tightening the fastenings on her cloak with the other.

She stops by her rooms first, leaning against the closed door for a second of air.

Rhaenys fights down the swell of nausea that worsened the longer she argued with Arthur. It’s ever-present, appearing just before breakfast and making intermittent visits throughout the day.

Sansa is the only one who knows, having held her hair back from the chamber pot in the evenings.

Lady Stark doesn’t say anything but her bright eyes are dark with pity, her hands soothing on Rhaenys’ brow.

It doesn’t matter what she carries. Aegon will never let her keep it. He’ll kill the man who ruined his sister and he’ll need no input from her to do it.

Rhaenys had gone to the Maesters’ the day Jon had returned, nauseated and frightened in equal measure.

Maester Amory confirmed it, leaving her alone in the windowless chambers beneath the rookery. She remembered sneaking down there as a child, Jon and Aegon her constant shadows.

There were many fragile bottles filled with enticing liquids, veritable treasures for children who could barely walk, let alone respect their delicacy.

This was before her brothers outgrew her in all ways and father sent them away to learn about war and go on progress and become knights.

Rhaenys thinks of the hours she spent with mother during those formative years, sewing at her knee, almost unable to keep still long enough to finish brocading one dress.

“Your stitches are forever uneven,” Mother had teased until Rhaenys grew red from anger. 

“I’ll have a seamstress for all my dresses when I’m wed,” she’d yelled, three and ten years old and so angry she could cry. “Then I’ll never touch another needle as long as I live.”

Mother had only looked at her. It’s Rhaenys’ most vivid memory of a woman dead long before she stopped breathing.

“Aye,” Mother had said softly. “I suppose you will.”

Aegon’s set up mother’s chambers for Sansa now, keeping her close to him in Maegor’s Holdfast.

Sansa is never there if she can help it; she takes all her meals in Rhaenys’ rooms, she and Lady Manderly.

Rhaenys heads to the Holdfast now, readjusting her skirts underneath her dark blue cloak. Soon it will be obvious under even this, but she clings to the shroud of secrecy for as long as she can.

She stops by the kitchens first, requesting that they plate up milk and tarts for the King’s rooms. It may seem less like an attack if Rhaenys presents her argument over food.

He can’t refuse both she and Jon, and Jon has spoken ceaselessly with Egg, even to the point of no sleep.

Rhaenys nods to the whitecloaks guarding her brother’s doors and they step aside instantly, knocking for her.

“Your Grace, Princess Rhaenys to see you,” one calls, his eyes focused straight ahead. 

Manning or something, Rhaenys thinks absently, striding through the entrance when she hears her brother give permission.

Her brother. The ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.

Little Egg Targaryen, who had screamed when she’d rubbed mud into his open mouth as a babe. The little boy who had sobbed on her shoulder at night when Jon was knighted a year earlier than he.

The only one of three with Targaryen coloring.

A King.

He sits at his desk now, his crown carelessly situated beside him, crushing a set of apparently inconsequential scrolls.

He dips his quill in ink and signs the paper with a flourish, she can tell that it’s his name, familiar with the  habit.

“Have you come to pick up where Jon left off,” he says without looking at her, and Rhaenys clenches her fists, unable to staunch the ever-present fire in her blood.

“Well, when you provide me with such a warm welcome, brother, I think, why not?” She brandishes the tray she had carefully carried from the kitchens. “I come bearing gifts.”

Aegon turns to look at her as he seals the letter with the three-headed dragon and smiles.

It’s not his true smile, not really. Rhaenys doesn’t think she’ll ever see her brother smile again.

“My word is law,” Aegon says, placing the scroll down so that he can turn to face her entirely.

He’s grown into a handsome man, she thinks dully. He and Lady Sansa will have lovely children.

“I’ll wed Jon,” Rhaenys grits out, because she will. Jon will abide by his honor and Rhaenys knows she can’t get what she wants. She’ll marry her brother before the Gods in the Holy Sept if she can convince Egg of this one thing.

“Oh?” Aegon says, his face soft. “I wasn’t aware there were any other options.”

Rhaenys steps closer to him and he rises in response.

She hates the fact that he and Jon are so much taller but she meets his eyes for good measure.

“I could kill myself,” Rhaenys says levelly. “That’s always an option.”

She doesn’t mean it as an empty threat. She has no real desire to die but even less of a desire to roll over and play fetch at her brother’s command.

Aegon’s face twists.

“I would prefer you breathing, Rhaenys,” he says, dropping his body back down into his seat.

“Yes, so you can move me like a piece on a cavass board. It would be a bit harder to decide who gets my cunt if I were dead.”

Aegon slams a fist down against his desk, rattling his books and inkpot.

Rhaenys sits at the small table in the center of the room and lifts her own cup of tea. It’s still piping hot and she allows the warmth to seep into her bones.

“You wonder why you and mother never got along,” Aegon says. “Why must you continue to fight me?”

Rhaenys winces at the jab. He can’t possibly know what it’s like to be ill-suited for womanhood and too female for the kingdom. He can’t know what it means to fail at every turn.

“Don’t listen to me then,” Rhaenys says. “Listen to Jon. He’s less...hot-headed than I am. Don’t do this.”

Aegon smiles but it’s nastier than even his false one.

“You mean for me to take the counsel of a brother who would betray me?”

Rhaenys raises her brows and sets her cup down with a clatter.

“Aegon. Jon would rather die. He loves you more than anything. He told you so himself.”

Aegon hums, steepling his chin in his hands.

“Did you know they sent ravens to one another? Sweet Sansa Stark and the brother you love so well. Pycelle painstakingly copied them for me. He meant them for father but Ser Arthur’s actions ensured that they fell into my hands instead.”

Rhaenys pales. She hadn’t known that. Jon, dear, guileless Jon, sending scrolls to Aegon’s betrothed. 

Her knuckles turn white against the table.

“Would you like to hear them?”

Rhaenys shakes her head so violently that the nausea rises and she gives herself a headache.

Aegon rummages around on his desk as though he hasn’t heard her, picking up a scroll that seems almost weathered with the amount of times it’s been unraveled.

_ I’ve been the worst sort of man and a dishonorable brother,  _ Aegon begins, his voice clear. Rhaenys’ stomach aches.

_ But I find you beautiful. The way your sweet hair curls on your forehead and the way you look up beneath your lashes when you’re excited. When you laugh. I’ve not been able to stop thinking of you since the day you allowed me to carry you to the sept.  _

“Gods, Egg. Stop!” Rhaenys says, barely finding her voice. It’s a violation. She has no desire to hear what her brother writes to a lady in the privacy of his own rooms. 

“You have what you want. He’ll never--he’ll never touch her. He wouldn’t have done anything.”

Aegon laughs. “You didn’t read them all. All the times they’ve met. He betrayed me.”

Aegon says this last placidly but Rhaenys can see the little boy underneath the man, angry at the world. He’s lost father too, Rhaenys thinks. But he’s gained something much worse.

“If he’s to be my husband I can assure you, he’ll keep his hands right where they belong,” Rhaenys says, clutching at her tea for dear life.

“You’ll never have to worry.”

“Are you my champion now, Rhaenys? Have you come to defend your least favored brother?”

Rhaenys rises, her face hot.

“Ser Arthur is the closest memory we have left of father,” she says. “We will lose that if you kill him. It was my fault that he wasn’t by father’s side. If I hadn’t been there, he wouldn’t have had to escort me into the City.”

Aegon rises again, coming to stand opposite of her end of the table.

“That shouldn’t have mattered. He swore his oath as a Kingsguard before you even existed.”

Rhaenys bites down on the inside of her jaw so hard that she tastes blood.

“You would have me die then? You’ll hear no arguments from me,” Rhaenys says, although she feels lightheaded and near blacking out.

“Ser Arthur did not swear to protect the King’s family at the King’s expense. How can I trust him to protect me if he couldn’t do so for his dearest friend?” 

Aegon says this last so derisively that Rhaenys falls back into her seat so hard that her tea and Egg’s milk rattle in their saucers.

Aegon looks down at the tray dismissively and Rhaenys waves a hand over the spread.

“I had the kitchen plate your favorites. I thought we might try and be civil for once.”

Her voice sounds faint.

He would see her dead, then. 

_ At the expense of the King _

Aegon seems to look at her, truly look upon her, and finally he sits, albeit with a heavy sigh.

“I don’t mean to be harsh, Rhaenys. It’s the kingdom that matters. It’s father’s legacy and it’s my duty to uphold it.”

He raises his milk to his lips, taking a long draught as he observes her.

“Think of me. You and Jon, my blood, turned against me. Fighting me every step of the way.”

Rhaenys still feels out-of-body and she curls her arms around her stomach in the silence.

“I know you went to see him,” Aegon says conspiratorially and Rhaenys’ eyes snap to his violet ones. The slant of his mouth is amused.

He drinks his milk again, a longer sip this time, as though contemplating her existence.

“Have you betrayed me too?”

He sets his cup down with a crash and Rhaenys jumps in her seat.

“I--I didn’t--”

Aegon snorts. 

“I loved you. I loved the both of you, if you can believe it. Better than you two ever loved me.”

Rhaenys is crying now, great, ugly sobs, and she releases her stomach to grasp at the arms of her seat.

“It’s mother who loved me,” Aegon says,leaning over her, his eyes wild in his pale face.

“She’s gone and died too with none of us to console her.” 

Rhaenys buries her face in her hands. 

Aegon’s breathing grows heavy and he stumbles back down into his seat, his large hands clutching at the two closest corners of the table.

“I can fix it,” he says, his voice considerably lowered. “I’ll make father proud. But I can’t do that if I can’t trust you.”

Rhaenys stands, her eyes red rimmed and wet.

Aegon’s brow is furrowed and he blinks slowly, chin hanging almost to his collarbone.

“Come here, Egg,” Rhaenys says, kneeling beside his seated figure. His legs are so long that they almost kick the chair opposite his.

“Rhaenys,” Aegon says, and her eyes well up again. He’s just a boy.

“Come on, Eggy,” Rhaenys whispers and her brother’s face crumbles.

He sags forward, his chin almost hitting the edge of the table and Rhaenys pushes all of her weight underneath his right shoulder and rises simultaneously.

Aegon jostles the table regardless and Rhaenys grunts under his bulk. It’s a few paces to his bed and he mumbles into her hair as she drops to her knees in order to safely deposit him onto his blankets.

“Can you lie back for me,” she asks and Aegon’s eyes blink heavily as he reaches out a hand.

Rhaenys takes one into both of her own and doesn’t bother hiding her tears.

“You’re just like father. You’re just like all of us,” Rhaenys says softly, smoothing his hair away from his brow.

“Jon believes in miracles because he is one,” Rhaenys says, “but I know you. I know you, little brother. You will never change.”

Aegon’s hand tightens around hers.

“I’m tired,” he slurs, and Rhaenys presses her fist to her mouth.

“I know, love. Close your eyes.”

Aegon’s brow creases again and it’s so familiar that Rhaenys thinks she’ll be sick. It’s the same face he made when he first learned to swing his sword, when he cut himself on Doom’s blade.

The face he made when she kissed his hurts away, long after mother became too sick to sit with him outside while he and Jon played.

“You’ll stay?” Aegon whispers, his eyes falling shut, and Rhaenys nods, though he can’t see.

“I’ll stay. I’ll be here.”

She holds his hand tightly as his chest rises and falls and when she can no longer bear the looking, she stands, crossing the room to get to the dining table.

She sets his empty cup of milk upright and picks up the pitcher of water. She rinses the porcelain methodically, once, twice, four times, and dries her hand on her cloak.

She finishes her own tea, long since grown cold, and replaces that, too.

Rhaenys puts a hand in the pocket of her cloak and removes the vial, still half full of the mixture, dull and clear against her hand.

She pulls the cork free with the side of her teeth and pours some water into her own abandoned cup.

Rhaenys sets the pitcher back down and allows the water from her teacup to drip into the vial until it reaches the top.

Rhaenys replaces the cork, pressing down firmly with the flat of her palm and pockets the sweetsleep.

Maester Amory never noticed its disappearance, too eager to run and tell Grand Maester Pycelle about the princess’ bastard.

She rubs at her burning eyes with the back of her hands and turns to look at what she can see of her brother.

He’s twisted up in his sheets but there’s a pillow behind his head.

She can’t look at him again. She’s broken something within herself, something irreplaceable.

She pulls her hair back from her face and steps toward the door, her back a tense line.

The door opens soundlessly under her hand and her brother’s guards step aside to allow her to exit.

“I’ll be back to sup with the King this evening,” Rhaenys says, and Manning nods impassively. In the months since father’s death, the guards are used to Jon and Rhaenys taking turns arguing with the King, sometimes until the wee hours of the morning.

“Your Grace,” both men say, and Rhaenys pulls her cloak to cover her hair.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was surprisingly difficult to write despite knowing that it was coming. what can i say.  
> i loved that stupid hoe.  
> anyway comments make me feel the same way i did when i first saw America's Ass


	11. Chapter 11

Jon

301 AC

Jon will have to leave King’s Landing. He’s sure that his brother will give he and Rhaenys the seat at Dragonstone, but only before Aegon’s eldest son comes to age. Aegon won’t want him near.

The thought, in and of itself, is crushing.

All he’s thought about on the ride South was seeing his brother. 

Outside of the ever-present shame of having failed at the one task demanded of him--the one that truly mattered--Aegon’s constancy had been something of a balm.

Jon stands, crossing over to his armoire. His scabbard hangs within, empty of sword. He must have left it in the Vale.

Ice now resides in Lady Stark’s rooms, a cruel reminder rather than the opiate he’d hoped it would be.

It had weighed him down along the ride, a sword too heavy for a boy who hadn’t known what to do with it.

He fingers his livery now, smeared in blood not his own. He needs to have it sent out to wash but the idea of erasing it seems disrespectful, somehow.

If he’s lived then it must be his lot to suffer for it.

Jon closes the heavy wooden doors with a sharp jerk. It’s so loud in the silence of his rooms that he almost misses the furtive knock that coincides with the movement.

He catches End from where it rests on his desk, flipping it to bear in his left hand.

He’ll have a new sword made, travel to Mott’s shop on the Street of Steel. Aegon holds Blackfyre and Rhaenys said that Dark Sister has returned to Targaryen possession. 

The knock comes again, quiet but determined, and Jon pulls the door open a fraction, just wide enough to slide his blade through the opening.

A flash of red catches his eye and he has a moment to consider whether he’s truly gone mad or she has, when Sansa Stark pushes her way inside his rooms.

She caught him unawares, the only reason she was able to bully past him and he stands, stupefied, in the center of his apartments.

His gaze catalogues her mercilessly, like a man dying of thirst.

Her hair is loose around her face but for a thin braid that keeps errant tendrils from spilling across her forehead. 

She’s cloaked from head to toe but lavender sleeves peek from underneath dark blue, wide enough that he catches a glance of slender wrists.

Her eyes are rimmed in red, her teal eyes striking in her face.

She’s just as terribly lovely as she was before he left and he doesn’t know if it’s worse now that Aegon knows and has punished Jon for believing it.

“Sansa,” he says, young and stupid as ever.

“The King’s retired to his rooms,” Sansa says hurriedly, and Jon realizes he’s still holding End by the hilt. It’s a twin to his brother’s, a black three-headed dragon soldered underneath his palm in contrast to Aegon’s red.

“I’m sure that a spy  is running to him now to tell him that someone has entered my rooms,” Jon says with a humor he doesn’t quite feel.

Sansa smiles. It’s a soft, shy, thing, and his hands twitch with the sense memory of her face. He wonders what they could have been. 

He’ll never dishonor Rhaenys by finding out.

“The King will send you and Rhaenys away after he marries me,” Sansa says and Jon cocks his head.

“Aye. Not so far that his little spiders can’t keep an eye on us but just far enough so that I don’t have another opportunity to betray him.”

Sansa is shaking her head before he finishes his sentence and she crosses over to the small table in the center of his rooms.

“You didn’t betray anybody. No one forced anyone to do anything. If we had, maybe this would be a bit easier.”

Jon raises his eyebrows, his sword hand in a fist at his side.

“You told me once that I couldn’t apologize for a life I didn’t ask for.” Sansa lifts her head, pushing her heavy hair over her shoulders. He’s momentarily blinded by the sight of it, as he usually is, but she drags a chair out and sits down into it, dainty as you please.

“There’s so much that I have to apologize for now, Sansa. The choices that I’ve made in this life I didn’t want.”

Sansa shakes her head but Jon steps closer to her and then away, as if pulled by a thread. His familiarity with her is what started all of this. 

“Don’t.” Jon says.

Jon drops to a knee instead, startling even himself with the movement. Sansa draws back in alarm and then scoots forward on her chair, elbows resting on heavy skirts.

“If this is the last time I have you alone,” Jon says, “and it will be, I need to apologize. It’s one thing if the Lord Stark had died in battle but it’s my _fault_ that he’s dead at all.”

Sansa’s face is flushed and she opens and closes her mouth twice before she figures out what it is she wants to say.

“Your father was four years older than mine. My father was a greenboy when he went to fight for your mother. He was only a little bit older than you when they sent him away to war. When they told him that the--the Mad King had gone and burnt his father alive and murdered his older brother, the heir of Winterfell.”

Sansa’s hands fists into her skirts, bunching them at the knee.

“There was no other choice but to fight. He’s always said--” Sansa pauses. “That is, he always told me that he learned to die a long time ago. And he learned it from soldiers. The men that fought with you in the Vale.”

Jon opens his mouth but Sansa’s face forces him to reconsider.

“I want you to understand something. I loved my father. I loved him very much. I’ll never stop crying for the fact that I was the child who spent his last with him and I’ll never stop feeling guilty for it. But you feeling guilty for his own decisions won’t _help me,_ Jon. That’s the truth of it.”

Jon reaches for her hand anyway. She falters and then takes one of his in both of her own. 

He looks foolish, he’s sure. Him, a prince of house Targaryen practically prostrated on the ground for the Rose of Winterfell.

Her slender thumbs run circles around his palms and her brow furrows as she catches sight of the nicks and scars that have yet to heal.

“How is it that every conversation we have, you come out with the right of it?”

Sansa snorts and immediately colors at the sound. Jon ducks his head and smiles where she can’t see it.

“Well, I’ve got a sight more time to think on things than you do. While you’re fighting wars and defending honor I’m making dresses and trying to corral a holdfast full of women into praying to the Seven rather than letting tourney-men up their--their skirts,” Sansa says, stuttering over the last.

Jon bursts into surprised laughter and Sansa’s thumbnail digs into his skin in shock.

“I didn’t think to hear you say such a thing,” Jon admits and Sansa shrugs, her eyes darting up to meet his.

“No one ever does. I can’t be as bold as your sister. I’ve tried it but everything comes out all wrong. Then I blush and ruin everything entirely.”

Sansa sits back and Jon reluctantly pulls his hand free so that he can rise.

“I think--I think I feel so badly about it because we were just. Sansa, we were just starting to really know each other. He’d tell me something of my mother and then we’d ride north the next day and set up camp and I thought--I thought that he was coming to like me. That he didn’t just see my--my father in me.”

Jon’s throat closes and he pushes down the bile in his stomach. 

His father. Once a King and now a corpse, long buried before he ever got the chance to ride home.

It hurts in a catastrophic way. He can understand Aegon’s terror when he considers how quickly everything has been lost. 

“There’s something of the Gods in all of this,” Jon says dully. “There was so much war--so much death, to bring my sister and my brother and I to safety.”

Jon meets Sansa’s eyes and leans one fist against the table so he can balance his weight.

“Everything requires payment. Even happiness, I suppose.”

Sansa bites down on her full lower lip and Jon raises his eyes to the ceiling. There’s a test in this meeting too, he’s sure. A whole host of things he will never be permitted to have.

“You looked like her, I think,” Sansa says, and Jon closes his eyes.

“My father never spoke of her. My mother knew of her. They were almost the same age. But father could never stand to talk about her. Whatever happened in Dorne was too much to bear.”

Sansa rises, cupping one hand underneath his elbow.

“But he gave some of her to you, Jon. I don’t know what everything means. I’m not--not, I can’t divine things or anything like that. But I think he would want you to have her. I think he gave you what he had.”

Sansa’s hand flexes around the bend of his joint and his eyes are welling with tears and when he turns to face her, her cheeks are already wet.

She’s swiping at them uselessly and for one ruthless moment, Jon doesn’t care. He drags her body close, eliminating any space between them.

He can feel the gentle curves of her breasts, even beneath the layers of her dress and he can feel the hummingbird pulse in her neck as she bends backward to meet his eyes.

“Our fathers are dead,” Jon says and Sansa nods with bright eyes, so stupidly beautiful that he knows he’s damned from this moment on.

It’s Jon that erases the distance between them, pulling her onto her tiptoes with arms about her waist. She rises willingly with a mewl and Jon swallows the sound down.

Her lips are softer than he imagined when he was writing scrolls to send to King’s Landing or when he was dismantling camp to finish the ride to the Trident.

She brings her hands to his doublet and catches fierce hold of the fabric and her mouth drops open under his.

He wonders if she’s ever done this before. There’s a foolish heat in his chest that hopes that this belongs to him. The only first of hers that he’ll ever take.

He wants to bite down on the plush of her lower lip, redden it to mirror her hair but he pulls himself away with a gasp for air.

Sansa looks obscene.

The sight of her has him hardened in his pants and she’s clasping both hands underneath her chin like a debauched angel.

Her mouth is as red as he hoped and so are her cheeks. Her hair has fallen across her shoulders and he’s seized with the desire to do it again. And again. And again.

“I wanted that,” Jon breathes. “Every second of it. It’s the last time I’ll ever have it and I’ve already done so many unforgivable things.”

Sansa narrows her eyes. “I--I wanted it too. I’ve never.” She flushes again and Jon wishes he’d never kissed her because now he’ll have to live with the knowledge of it but she continues doggedly, “I won’t have you ruin my first--first kiss, Jon. I won’t. I’ll be able to endure any that follow now.”

Jon doesn’t even want to consider Egg’s hands on her but that’s the reality of it. He’ll devote his life to the Crown after this. Anything else he might have considered is forever out of his reach.

“Sansa--”

The rap at the door drowns out the rest of his sentence and Sansa’s face loses any color his kiss had given her.

Jon unsheathes End and flips it twice in his fist for an underhanded strike.

“Behind me, then,” Jon whispers, and Sansa is soundless when she shifts out of the line of sight.

The knock comes again, firm and purposeful, and Jon strides to the door.

“Your Grace,” the voice says, and Jon squints in attempt to place it. The voice sounds tight with fear and Jon glances around to find Sansa mostly hidden by his armoire, a flash of red tucked behind an ear.

Jon opens the door with End just out of sight.

It’s Ser Manning and his eyes dart back and forth, meeting Jon’s gaze and then glancing away.

“Your--Your Grace,” the knight says and Jon sheathes End under Manning’s obvious concern.

“What is it?”

Manning opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

“Manning. Speak up. What’s going on?”

“It’s the King, Your Grace.”

Jon grabs the doorknob with his left hand, jerking the door wider in an attempt to remain upright.

For a moment he imagines father as he was, towering, a hair full of spun silver. He remembers the laughter when he and Aegon had done something especially humorous, the beginning of crow’s feet at his eyes.

“Aegon?” Is what he says instead and Manning inclines his head.

“The Princess went to sup with him this evening. She found him unresponsive.”

Jon’s grip around the brass knob tightens until he can feel the grooves dig into his palm.

“Your Grace?”

The room is abruptly very small. He feels the individual pieces of himself but they don’t seem to coalesce into a whole. He feels the negligible drag of End on his hip, the rise of his heartbeat in his chest. Everything is too constricted and he thinks

_Not him. Surely, not after everything_

“Your Grace, you’re needed in the Holdfast. The princess is...inconsolable.”

Jon nods, once, twice, three times until it’s all he can do but shake his head.

“Let me. Let me--” Jon waves his hand dismissively.

“I’ll. I’ll tell the maesters that you’re on the way,” Manning says sympathetically.

Jon nods again--did he ever stop--and it’s as though another body closes the door behind the knight.

Jon doesn’t release the knob until he feels hands prying his fingers free. His hand remains curled into a fist. 

He hears his name as though he’s underwater and Sansa lays a hand on his chest.

“...Jon? Jon, I need you to listen to me. You need to go to the Holdfast. Rhaenys needs you. Can you hear me?”

Jon nods.

“I need you to say it. Look at me, Jon, please.”

It’s the please that does it. 

Sansa’s eyes are wet but her mouth is pursed and she’s got his livery fisted in one hand.

“Go back to your rooms,” Jon says. “I’ll send a kingsguard to collect you and your ladies. They won’t be worried about where you are right now but please, be careful.”

Sansa takes a deep breath and he can see that she’s about to argue with him.

“I’m begging you, Sansa. I’ve got a small chance to get things under control. Please.”

Sansa bites down on that lower lip that he’d been dreaming of just a few minutes ago and Jon feels sick.

“Maybe it’s not--maybe it’s not what they say,” Sansa tries and Jon smiles reflexively. It must be more of a grimace because her face crumples in response.

Jon turns away from her and slips from the room, running to the holdfast at a brisk jog.

There aren’t many people in this wing of the Keep and there is no one at all in the Holdfast until he arrives at the King’s chambers.

The kingsguard is there in full; Jon sees Ser Swann and Ser Oakheart standing guard at Aegon’s doors while Crabb and Manning are seemingly interrogated by Pycelle and his small retinue of Maesters.

Rhaenys is nowhere to be found and it’s Pycelle that sees him first, bowing obsequiously when Jon comes to meet the party.

“Ah, Your Grace,” he says, one weathered hand fiddling with the links of his chain, “the princess refuses to leave the King’s side. We’ve tried, uh, removing her, but she put up quite a fuss. It would be best if my Maesters and I were to examine His Grace with as little interruption as possible. It’s quite likely that the Princess is overreacting. The King has been under a great deal of strain since the Halfman’s Uprising--”

“Grand Maester, I’d like to see my brother. Remain here with your men until I send for you.”

Pycelle jerks on his chain in consternation. “I really think that I, that we, ought to--”

“I’m afraid I must insist,” Jon says tightly, and Oakheart and Swann bow as he approaches the doors.

“Don’t let Pycelle or his vultures inside,” Jon commands and both men nod in response.

Jon makes to open the doors but the knights open them wide before he has a chance to touch.

He stands in the entryway as they shut almost soundlessly behind him and his eyes follow the familiar sprawl of furniture and belongings.

The last time he’d been here, all of this belonged to father. 

Jon had never gotten the chance to speak to Egg about it before he’d alienated his brother entirely.

The small dining set in the middle of the room holds two teacups and an assortment of breakfast pastries that look nearly stale.

Egg’s desk is more cluttered than father ever kept it, a set of scrolls kept immobile by the dull shine of his crown.

It’s Rhaenys’ tears that bring him back to the present and he exits the outer room to turn the corner into Aegon’s bedchambers. The rooms are unchanged, awash with a giant tapestry of the Battle of the Trident that the Dornishmen weaved for father after his victory.

Robert Baratheon’s warhammer crosses with Blackfyre and Jon can see the wink of real rubies that make up father’s breastplate.

He drags his eyes away to find Rhaenys crouched over Egg’s prone form, her body shivering as though she’s experiencing convulsions.

“Rhaenys,” Jon breathes, his chest heavy.

She looks up at him with eyes nearly swollen shut from tears, hair stuck to her cheeks with sweat.

She drags one pale sleeve over her face and her hands flutter at Aegon’s blankets.

“Is he? Is he really--” Jon tries, and Rhaenys face twists as she looks down at Aegon’s broad hand.

They are similar in form, Jon and his older brother, and if it weren’t for the silver hair on Aegon’s wrist, their hands could be the same.

Aegon’s hair is splayed like a crown across his pillow, his other hand resting on his stomach.

He’s even paler than he was in life and Jon steps closer still, searching for the rise and fall of his chest.

Jon drops to his knees with a crash so loud that it scares Rhaenys and she scrambles over to him on her own knees, hands bracing his shoulders.

“Don’t look at him, Jon. Don’t. I couldn’t bear it.”

Jon can barely hear her, so intent is he on his brother’s fingers, glistening with the dragon-ring father had given him on his sixteenth name day.

“It would’ve been better to die as a babe than to face this,” Jon says dully and Rhaenys’ hands come up to cradle his cheeks. His face is wet, he thinks.

“It would have been better to never have a brother at all then to know he died hating me. He died thinking I didn’t love him.” 

Jon’s breath catches and then he’s crying, great, big, ugly sobs that are so violent that he fears they’ll tear him in two.

Rhaenys pushes entirely into his space and draws his head down to her shoulder.

She’s as slight as Sansa but he drops all his weight upon her anyway and she bears it all the same.

“Shh, darling,” she croons, in a voice that Jon hasn’t heard since he was too young to speak properly, his palms and knees scraped to hell from sparring.

Jon wraps his arms around her shoulders and he can feel her crying into his hair.

“He’s our brother,” Jon says dumbly, as though that alone should make this impossible.

“It’s Egg! He’s--he’s my best friend. I was supposed to take care of him. Father told me he’d need it. He’s the type to always need support and I--”

The words won’t come and Rhaenys is humming nonsense into black curls.

“I’ll kill them,” Jon says, leaning away from Rhaenys so he can look upon her face.

“I’ll burn them alive the way grandfather did. Anything but him. Not Aegon.”

“It was me.”

Rhaenys’ head is bowed and Jon recoils on instinct.

“Rhaenys.”

“I said,” she hisses, almost violently, “it was _me._ ”

Jon shakes his head, dropping his hands heavily upon her shoulders. He shakes her once, twice.

“Stop it. Stop saying that. You’re ill. This has made you ill,” he says, and Rhaenys’ hands come up to settle atop his own.

“It was painless, Jon. I would never--I could never hurt him.”

Jon scrambles backwards, catching onto Egg’s bedclothes in his retreat.

His palm meets Targaryen red and brushes against his brother’s hand.

“I don’t want to hear it, Rhaenys. Pycelle was right. You’ve had a scare--”

“I’m not lying, Jon. I’ve never lied to you, not if I could help it.”

Jon’s spine hits Aegon’s armoire, a beast of redwood with a three-headed dragon carved into its doors.

Jon searches her face for answers. She’s still crying, albeit more subdued, but her hands are balled together in her lap and she meets his gaze steadily.

“Why? Rhaenys, why?” Jon hisses, his voice high and plaintive with tears. He sounds like a little boy.

“He’s our _brother_ ,” Jon repeats, swiping angrily at his eyes.

“He loved us. Gods, Rhaenys. Explain it to me, I need to-- I have to understand.”

Rhaenys’ body shudders with the command.

“You weren’t here, Jon. After father was killed--he wouldn’t listen, not to anyone. Every day, we argued. Even Sansa--she tried speaking with him.”

“He needed TIME, Rhaenys,” Jon nearly yells and Rhaenys wraps one arm around her middle.

“He had time, Jon! You didn’t see him. I was there when the both of you were small. I know him. I know Aegon better than you in some ways. You and he were always competing, at least on his end. Aegon wasn’t--he wasn’t built for this. He’s never faced adversity. He never had to learn to _fit._ ”

Jon digs his nails into his palm, the pain bracing.

“Rhaenys. Please. Tell me anything but this.”

“I can’t, Jon. You know I can’t. We waited for you. He waited for you to return. I thought, if anyone can bring Egg back, it would be you.”

Jon remembers. He remembers seeing Aegon in the corridor, the chill in his manner. His brother had looked at and through him in the same moment.

“He had your scrolls. The ones you sent to Sansa when you rode to the Trident,” Rhaenys says dully and Jon’s neck snaps up.

“He--what? How?”

Rhaenys laughs. “Pycelle. Who else? It’s why he wanted us married off. He was going to kill Arthur for protecting me--when it’s the last thing father ever told him to do. He was going to kill Arthur for my mistake. It’s not--father never killed unless there was battle or it was the only choice. Arthur is father’s best friend, Jon. You have to understand.”

Jon gasps out another sob and falls silent, looking down at his lap.

“Aegon told me that Arthur had never promised to protect the King’s family at the expense of the King.”

Jon’s eyes widen and meet his sister’s.

“He--”

“He would see me dead, yes. There’s nothing that mattered to him more than father’s life.”

“He couldn’t have meant it,” Jon says helplessly and Rhaenys’ face hardens. 

“Why can’t you believe what’s always been? Aegon loved us, yes, but he didn’t trust us. Even before.”

“I could have freed Ser Arthur,” Jon says. “I wouldn’t--I couldn’t stand for any harm to come to him. He was like--he was like a father. To me. And there’s nothing I could do for ours.”

Rhaenys laughs again but this one is pitiful, more of a wet sigh.

“Yes, well, he’ll be a father to someone.”

Jon stands, crossing over to look at the crown of Rhaenys’ head.

“Rhaenys?”

“What would you do for Sansa? If she was to be murdered unjustly? If she carried your child? What would you do?”

Jon blanches at the very idea. Sansa is Aegon’s promised--was--but the very idea fills him with a cold sort of rage.

“She isn’t mine. I’ve no idea what she wants.”

“No. You wouldn’t. Not you. You’ve always done everything perfectly.”

Jon grits his teeth as he rests a palm on Rhaenys’ hair.

“I’ve helped drive our brother to madness. That’s ours to bear, Rhaenys.”

Jon thinks of his sister, carrying a child amidst grief, and previously dry eyes threaten to spill yet again.

He’s ragged and he refuses to look at Aegon’s corpse, cut down in its prime.

“Will you have me executed?”

Rhaenys asks this last lowly and Jon does recoil this time, drawing her to stand.

“Why? So I can be the last dragon?” He pauses. “I never wanted this, Rhaenys. It was never supposed to be me. I was supposed to be Aegon’s Hand. His spare.”

Rhaenys shivers. 

“Yes. I know. You would’ve never fought for a Crown, Jon.”

Jon’s head feels suddenly heavy. He thinks of father and Aegon resting in the crypts below the Sept of Baelor, a half-wolf left in their stead.

“It doesn’t matter now, does it?”

Rhaenys stills and Jon’s gaze is drawn to Egg’s body involuntarily. He wants so badly for him to rise. To make a joke. Even to goad him in that distinctly unfriendly way that had always told Jon that his brother was frightened.

“I’ll take it.”

Jon’s brows rise to his hairline.

“You’d take the Crown.”

Rhaenys nods, color flooding her cheeks.

“They’ll not suspect you if I take it. Why would you murder your brother only to give the crown to your sister? And I’m a woman. I can’t have possibly imagined I would be chosen for it at all.”

Jon’s not averse to the idea. It feels distinctly crass to discuss it in what has become his brother’s tomb and he pulls Rhaenys to the outer room, one hand on her wrist.

“Say you do. The small council won’t like it. There hasn’t been a queen since Rhaenyra and even then her reign was short-lived.”

Rhaenys shakes her head.

“She didn’t have you. And I don’t want the Crown either. Maybe once…” Rhaenys says, her eyes slipping closed.

“Before I knew the violence of it. But you don’t deserve to bear the brunt of my choices. Not ever again.”

“You could marry,” Jon says reluctantly. He’ll still marry her if she chooses. He’ll never abandon his blood.

She looks at him strangely and reaches a palm up to stroke over his beard.

“Darling. I’ll never marry. Not you. Not anyone.”

Jon looks down at where her hand rubs across her belly and he sucks in his air.

“It’s. It’s Ser Arthur’s, then?”

Rhaenys blushes under the scrutiny and Jon works to keep the shock from his face.

“It is.”

“Rhaenys--” Jon sighs. An unwed princess as queen, a bastard babe in her belly. He can see the nightmare now.

“I’m going to be Queen,” Rhaenys says, as though she can sense that Jon is preparing to take up the mantle despite his claims to the contrary.

“You haven’t even--you haven’t even lived yet, Jon. The small council will hate it. But not if I give them certain...concessions.”

Jon snorts against his will. Rhaenys has never conceded to anyone in all her life.

“I’ll name you my heir. You’re the last born Targaryen prince. The crown will pass to any children you have through you. If I married anyone but you, I’d have to take their name. I’ll not give away a three-hundred-year dynasty.”

“But the babe, Rhaenys. I don’t know anything about babes but you’ll start to show eventually. How do you expect to hide that from them?”

Rhaenys smiles, and it's a watery thing.

“I don’t. This is. This is our baby. Mine and his,” she says shortly, dismissively. “I’m going to have it and I’m going to keep it.” She pauses, resigned. “And who knows? Women die in childbed all the time.”

Jon’s eyes narrow in horror.

“You can’t be so callous about all of this, Rhae. Gods. You’re planning on--on changing your whole life. It all sounds so simple now but it won’t be. It can’t be. Nothing ever goes according to plan.”

Rhaenys smiles. “I’m making you Hand of the Queen. Tell them whatever they want to hear. That you’ll keep me in check. Control me. I don’t care. I just. I can’t make you suffer with me.”

Jon laughs, bare-boned. “You’re mad. I hope you know that.” His humor dissipates as soon as it appeared.

“You can’t free Ser Arthur,” Jon says seriously and Rhaenys huffs out a sigh.

“I’m Queen. I don’t intend to rock the boat but neither will I kill him.”

Jon scrubs a hand over his face.

“Aegon’s last wish was for punishment. He had Ser Arthur arrested in front of his bannermen. The men will revolt if they see his sister usurp the King’s command.”

Rhaenys looks frightened. “You can’t--you can’t ask me to have Ilyn Payne execute him. I won’t do it. I’ll do anything else. Jon, please!”

Jon shakes his head, shushing her gently. “I wouldn’t ask it of you. But you can’t save him, Rhaenys.”

She bites down onto her lip until Jon is afraid she’ll draw blood.

“I love him. I love him, Rhaenys. He saved my life.” Jon takes a deep breath. “We’d never have him killed. But you’ll have to exile him to Essos. You have to save his.”

Aegon would have fought him. They would have come to blows, drawn blood. Rhaenys shudders once, so violently that she whimpers, and then she nods forcefully.

Jon thought there would be more of an argument but Rhaenys has always been pragmatic. She and Ser Arthur could never be together, anymore than he could hope to keep Sansa with him.

“I’m taking Sansa back North.” Jon says with the thought, “she need not suffer without her family any longer. As your Hand, I’ll clean our messes. This is the first of them.”

Jon thinks of what brought he and Rhaenys together, what brought him here. The nausea rises again and he considers what he knows.

_I have no brother. My brother is dead._

“You killed Aegon.”

“I did.” 

She meets his gaze, uncompromisingly. Her eyes are wet again but he admires her fiercely in this moment.

“I love you,” Jon says seriously, “but I don’t know that I can forgive you.”

Rhaenys barks out a laugh and flings her arms around his waist, tucking her dark head below his sternum.

“Oh, Jon. I have nothing worth forgiving.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off. this was like the first chapter I had actually outlined and fleshed into something resembling content. So to FINALLY get here was super cathartic. kind of like killing thanos, round deux.
> 
> secondly, do y'all know how hard it is not squeal when i read these comments? because some of y'all are in my fucking head. The best part about this is knowing that you view events/people the same way i do. (not that you have to, art is subjective homies, go forth and love/hate whoever you want) but to know that you legit feel what i'm putting down? orgasmic, my brethren. i be wanting to spoil the whole work in a three-page thread lol
> 
> furthermore, this is already long af and y'all shouldn't be forced to read any more of my writing than what you signed up for, but every comment/synopsis/analysis brings me unbridled joy. it softens the blow of neglecting my thesis lmfao  
> feel free to chime in on whatever you think is going on.  
> may GRRM finish the series before he dies, amen


	12. Chapter 12

Sansa

301 AC

Aegon is dead. 

Sansa had forced Wylla to repeat it four times before Sansa would believe it when Wylla told her so.

Poisoned. 

She’s been betrothed to the same man for almost all her life and in an instant, he’s dead and so is her father and there’s no need of her here. Not anymore.

Sansa has to take a seat when she hears it, stumbling into the corner of her small table and onto the edge of her bed.

“You never wanted to wed him,” Wylla tries, and Sansa snorts, covering her mouth with one long sleeve.

“No, but I didn’t expect that he’d die to rid me of him. I thought--in the beginning. Before father rode off to war and Lord Tyrion’s men attacked--”

Wylla curls a hand around Sansa’s free one, stilling its shaking.

“It’s not safe here anymore, not without a purpose.”

It’s Wylla’s turn to snort.

“You’re safer now than you were with King Aegon. Prince Jon wouldn’t let any harm come to you.”

“He hasn’t time to worry about me. He’s, well. He’s to be King now.”

Wylla stands and Sansa’s hand grows cold in her absence.

“Have they made an announcement yet?”

Sansa shakes her head. “They wouldn’t tell me anything. Lady Blount said that there’s to be a meeting with the small council today.”

Wylla picks up her needlework absently.

“Aye. I expect that would answer all of our questions.”

Sansa stands abruptly and Wylla sets the thread back down, eyebrows raised.

“Yes. It would answer them quite nicely.”

Wylla is already shaking her head, eyes narrowed. “Absolutely not, Sansa. This isn’t Winterfell. They’re not going to--going to give you a smack on the hand because you’re the darling of the Keep.”

Sansa’s already tying her hair into a soft knot at the base of her neck. Her hair is what caused her such trouble when sneaking around as a child, far more than Arya’s behavior.

“I won’t get caught, then.”

“You’re a little fool,” Wylla says tersely, rolling up her own thinner sleeves.

“You can’t come with me, Wyl,” Sansa says softly and Wylla makes a disgruntled sound. 

“I’d like to see you stop me. Do you believe I’m just going to watch you waltz into the dragon’s lair? I promised your mother I’d look after you.”

Sansa’s chest grows tight at the concern and she simultaneously laments the fact that northfolk are so difficult to persuade.

“Yes. And you’ve done a truly excellent job thus far. But I need you here, to cover for me if anyone comes looking.” Sansa pauses, lips pursed. “And two are always more easily caught than one.”

Wylla looks as though she’s about to argue further but Sansa doesn’t have any more time to indulge her.

“I don’t have time, Wyl. The meeting’s probably already begun and I don’t know the passageways very well. I only know the one that the princess used to sneak back into the Keep during the Battle of Lion Gate.”

Wylla’s eyes are wide. “You’re absolutely daft. I don’t know why we worried so about Arya. It’s always been you.”

Sansa shrugs, cheeks colored.

“I have to go. Tell anyone that knocks that I’m indisposed. I felt ill after the--the news.” Sansa swallows against the instinctive bile that rises at the thought. Dead. A boy of nine and ten.

Sansa throws her arms around Wylla and the other girl’s arms rise just as quickly.

She exits the door to her apartments soundlessly, catching pale green skirts into her fists. Sansa remains unafraid of running into anyone in the ladies portion of the Keep but she still moves soundlessly, keeping to walls and corners.

It’s Arya who first taught her how to act like a little mouse, dragging her across the moors when her younger sister was still quite little.

_You’re small, Sansa. You needn’t act like a horse._

Sansa presses her knuckles to her mouth to keep from laughing at the memory. Arya is almost fatally graceless when it comes to behaving as a lady ought, but when they are playing at spies, she’s the best out of all their brothers.

The corridors near her chambers are lavishly appointed but upkeep has suffered since the Halfman’s Uprising. 

The tapestries depict extolled battle scenes and Sansa averts her eyes from the crush of red that adorns the fabric.

There’s no way into Maegor’s Holdfast but the council chamber is just outside of it. Rhaenys’ had arrived through the passageway that leads from the ladies quarters to the chamber itself.

Maegor had several passageways appointed to escape from within there because the most powerful men in Westeros often inhabited those rooms.

It seems foolhardy now, that his actions would give a little girl from Winterfell such unparalleled access to the small council’s dealings.

The ladies quarters extends into the corridor before the Throne Room and Sansa approaches the end of the hall and pulls the tapestry aside as she tries to recall which portion of stone Rhaenys had pressed gently against.

“This tunnel was Jon’s favorite,” Rhaenys had whispered, her mouth downturned despite the subject matter.

“Father kept guards stationed in front of this wall when he had sensitive meetings in the council chambers. Jon would’ve stayed out,” Rhaenys said, running the edges of her fingers along the wall, prodding until she came to a spot just above her head. The smooth paleness held a small depression, like a divot made by a finger, and Rhaenys pressed down on it and Sansa watched as the wall shuddered and gave way to an opening the size of a child.

For a moment, Sansa considers going back to her rooms to wait for someone to tell her what’s been decided.

Jon will come, and maybe even Rhaenys at the least. The cavern is like the opening to the pits where the servants empty the chamber pots come the end of day and Sansa feels abruptly, foolishly, afraid.

It’s the fear that does it. There’s no one in the Keep to be brave for her but herself and she pulls her skirts indecently high and scrambles into the opening, inadvertently holding her breath.

It feels damp and Sansa drops to her hands and knees and pushes the hood of her cloak from her head. The tapestry flutters back into place and Sansa is suddenly cocooned in darkness.

She scrambles forward, inexplicably scared of being trapped. There’s a way to close the tunnel from the inside but Sansa didn’t think to bring a candle and she doesn’t relish the idea of being trapped down here for days with no food and little air.

The tunnel is inlaid with smoother stones and Sansa stops to laugh at the idea that King Maegor may have outfitted his escape routes for comfort.

Her hands are still scrapped a bit as the tunnel sharply veers right and she turns down it on unsteady knees, clipping her shoulder into the opposite wall.

The only sound is her own breathing and her hair is beginning to fall from her loose bun.

The passageway begins to widen as Sansa gets closer to her destination and she has enough space to tuck her hair behind her ear and swipe a sleeve over her forehead.

Her breaths give way to upraised voices, still muffled beyond the constraints of the wall.

_There’s another stone, exactly like the first_

Rhaenys’ voice echoes in her head and Sansa rises to her knees and drags her fingers down the wall before her that precludes forward progress.

Sansa’s going to break a nail at this rate and the voices ebb and flow around her.

A third of the way down she finds the indentation and it gives way slightly. This stone demands that Sansa push harder and she does, grunting a bit with the effort. The increase in manual labor is presumably so that entry to the council chambers is almost soundless.

The wall dissipates much as the other had, sinking horizontally into the otherwise seamless stone framing the passageway’s opening. 

There’s a tapestry in front of the hole, most likely meant to conceal, and when Sansa presses a palm against it to test its weight, her hand collides with cool marble.

A statue then, Sansa surmises, running her hand down what appears to be a leg of some sort.

The voices are clear and raised and Sansa settles down onto her bottom, crossing her legs underneath her skirts.

This is as poor a decision as she’s made in a long time and her heart beats double for it. If they’re to decide what’s to be done with her, she deserves to know what that is.

Sansa curls her hand into the fabric of the tapestry, fisting it as she draws it slowly to the side.

The light streaming from the council chamber after so long in the tunnel hurts her head but she grasps the cloth just enough to be able to peek from behind the statue itself.

The seven council members are almost at arms and she can see Jon’s profile at the head of the table as he faces the other seven members sat at either side.

He’s wearing the same crown he wore as a prince but his father’s crown lays in the center of the table, gleaming dully in the light.

She would have to lean further and expose herself to see everyone but she sees Lord Varys first, his hands clasped together beneath the long sleeves of his robe. The eunuch is silent as he observes the proceedings and Sansa’s gaze flows past him to Lord Velaryon, who sits with unconcealed bemusement, long silver hair tied in a braid away from his face, to Lord Sunglass, whose face is almost purpled with rage. Lord Celtigar is the last that she can see, and he appears to be trying to instill some sense of law and order.

She can see the back of Lord Hightower, hunched over at Jon’s right and silent, followed by Grand Maester Pycelle, who seems to be doing the most yelling. Ser Crabb is the most distinguishable, covered in the dragon’s livery, and the tallest at the table.

Sansa holds her breath.

“It’s...unconscionable. It won’t be had, Your Grace. The throne is yours by rights. The princess--” Pycelle pauses, breathing heavily, “she carries a bastard in her belly. The highborn won’t stand for it.”

Jon’s fist comes down against the table, rattling the papers and candelabra that rest upon it.

“I’m a patient man, Pycelle, but keep your mouth closed until I ask for your opinion. And keep my sister’s name out of it.”

Lord Velaryon looks amused, running a hand over his beard. Lord Varys leans forward, drawing one hand from his robes.

“Your Grace. As the Grand Maester has said so...gracefully, the princess is with child. If Your Grace would arrange a marriage for her, we could sequester her at court to minimize the damage.”

Sansa wishes she could see Jon’s full visage but as it is, she can just make out the tightening of his jaw. 

“I’ll not make any decisions on my sister’s behalf. If you’d like to speak with her regarding her condition, she’s in the Holdfast at your convenience.”

Lord Varys smiles. “I haven’t any stones to lose but I’d like to keep the remainder of my limbs attached. I’ll leave that to you, Your Grace.”

The assembled laugh rather uproariously and Sansa blushes at the vulgarity.

Lord Sunglass alone doesn’t seem entertained and the master of laws leans forward until Sansa can see the rail-thin slope of his neck. He’s wiry, with dark hair at his knuckles, and the heavy moonstones around his throat look like rocks come to drag him to the deep.

“It’s an abomination, Your Grace. A disgrace to the Seven. We’ll not have a bellyful of bastard on the Iron Throne, not when that throne belongs to you by rights!”

Lord Velayron’s eyes sharpen as he moves forward in his chair and Jon stands, leaning two fists against the table as he rises.

“It is my throne, you say. Would we all agree?”

The men nod as one and Sansa hears Ser Crabb’s chain clink. He’s the Lord Commander now that Ser Arthur is imprisoned below Traitor’s Walk.

“I didn’t invite you here today for your approval and I certainly didn’t call you here for your permission,” Jon says and Sansa’s never heard so cool a tone from him before.

“Your Grace--” Sansa hears and Jon continues to speak over the interruption.

“My father was murdered in my absence, by an Uncle who served House Lannister until his dying day. I took his head and when I returned--” Jon pauses here and when he continues, his voice is tight, “my brother was slewed.”

“My Aunt remains in the westerlands, unprotected from those sworn to House Lannister, with two babes who bear that same name. To the North, Lannister’s men murdered their Warden and you expect me to trust any outside of my blood?”

The room is so quiet you could hear the drop of a thimble.

“Maybe you are right. The people of Westeros will not accept Rhaenys on the throne, not in her condition. But neither will I allow you all to oversee it as I clean the Crown’s messes.”

Jon sighs, scrubbing a hand over his beard and Sansa’s heart aches for him. How very old he seems. He’s so far removed from the boy she met all those months ago. She will never know him again.

“Your Grace,” Lord Hightower begins, “As your Hand, I can manage the city in your absence.”

Jon doesn’t answer for a second and when he does, his voice is soft.

“I am told that when the Queen died--it changed you. I can find no fault with you, Lord Baelor. But you are of the old guard. Every young King must arrange his own council as he sees fit. It’s the way of things.”

Sansa watches Lord Hightower’s head dip almost to his sternum and she can see the rigid way he holds his spine.

“I’ve sent a raven to Storm’s End. My Uncle has agreed to come serve as my Hand and that of my sister. Rhaenys will serve as my Regent until I return.”

Lord Velaryon speaks up for the first time and Sansa clasps her hands together.

“Why not allow Lord Viserys to serve in your stead? It seems to me that you are uncommonly preoccupied with the princess, Your Grace.”

Jon steeples his fingers under his chin and inclines his head.

“All of my family has been murdered, even that which I didn’t know well. My sister is in no condition to fend for herself and I don’t trust that I’ll return to find her unmolested unless I place her in a position of power. I may be young yet but I’ll not be careless with any more lives.”

The men seem to have no rebuttal and Sansa wonders if she’s the only one to notice how Jon’s shoulders sag at the acquiescence.

Sansa allows her eyes to roam the gathering once more and almost reels back in shock when she makes unmistakable eye contact with Lord Varys.

The man’s face appears unchanged, as placid as the Narrow Sea untouched by waves, but he winks very carefully before turning his gaze back to the King.

Sansa’s heart stutters in her chest and she presses a fist to it in a blind panic.

“Your Grace,” Lord Varys interjects, speaking over Pycelle’s indignant spluttering, “now that we’ve resolved the pesky line of succession, how long do you anticipate “cleaning the Crown’s messes” will take?”

Sansa watches Jon run a hand through his curls and she feels a warm heat blossoming in her chest, the same that she felt when he first kissed her.

She can barely hear for the fright Lord Varys inspired but she touches her lips anyway, imagining the phantom press of Jon’s against hers.

She feels abruptly ashamed. The King’s just been murdered. She’s meant for no one now.

“As long as the journey takes by horse,” Jon says with a rueful laugh. “I intend to escort Lady Stark back North first, to pay my respects to her family and the northmen for their sacrifice.”

Lord Varys hums. “A warm sentiment, my lord. Have you not given thought to whom you might pick for a bride? The line of succession is...tenuous.”

Jon’s free hand curls into a fist on the table.

“In due time,” Jon grits out and Lord Varys inclines his head in acknowledgment.

“Your-Your Grace,” a different voice says and Sansa places it as Ser Crabb, his distinctive baritone apparent.

Jon’s face softens and he leans forward, his lower abdomen pressing against the edge of wood.

“Aye, Ser Crabb?”

“If it please you, have you given any--any thought on what’s to become of Ser Arthur? The King, that is, King Aegon said that he wanted you home for the execution. He thought it fitting that King Rhaegar’s sons watch the death of the man who c-couldn’t protect their father.”

Ser Crabb’s voice is strained with propriety and Sansa’s surprised to feel her eyes grow wet at the sound.

Ser Crabb is the most loyal of the goldcloaks she’s met and he loved Ser Arthur. It must grieve him so to beg for his life.

Jon’s body is so stiff a strong breeze couldn’t blow him over and he nods once, twice, to himself.

“Ser Arthur saved my life. Egg--Aegon,” Jon says, “didn’t owe him a life debt. But I do. Yet neither will I dishonor my brother.”

Lord Sunglass nods to himself, thin hands fiddling with his moonstones.

“Exile,” Jon says, clearing his throat. “I will speak to him myself.”

Sansa isn’t in a position to see Ser Crabb’s face but she hears the resignation in his voice all the same.

“Thank you, Your Grace. You’ve been very merciful.”

Jon nods, leaning forward to sweep his father’s crown into his hand.

“Lord Sunglass, arrange for the coronation to occur before my progress north. Lord Celtigar, I assume the Crown has the coin?”

Lord Celtigar smiles, a handsome man when at ease. 

“Aye, Your Grace. And if we haven’t, the Iron Bank loves acquiring yet more debt.” 

There’s another smattering of laughter and the men begin to shuffle their papers, sensing that the meeting has come to its end.

Sansa realizes that her fingers are aching from her grip on the tapestry and she watches as Lord Velaryon claps Jon on the shoulder as he passes.

Lord Monford Velaryon has been master of ships since Jon was a boy and Jon looks up at the man with a small smile.

Sansa observes as Lord Varys coasts from the room and she feels chilled to the bone.

She releases the fabric in a rush, rising to stiff knees as she makes to crawl back the way she came.

Varys’ little birds must use passages like this all the time, Sansa surmises, wondering if her knees will be bruised and red tomorrow.

Arya would’ve loved these, Sansa thinks, and her breath catches in her throat as she realizes that she’ll be seeing them again.

She never hoped for it to occur in such a fashion.

Sansa reaches the entrance to the passageway in good time, moving quickly with the benefit of experience. 

She doesn’t believe any have reason to come down this corridor but she hurries just the same, shoving aside the tapestry and rising to her feet for the first time in what seems like hours.

Sansa is hurriedly running her fingers along the inseam of the opening when she hears a light voice at her side.

“If you’ll allow me, my Lady?”

Sansa nearly shrieks, covering her mouth with her palm. She tugs her hair down quickly in the hopes that she looks less disheveled but Lord Varys only looks coolly amused.

He quickly finds the depression with experienced fingers and Sansa watches as the hole in the wall closes before her eyes.

Lord Varys adjusts the tapestry with great care and then folds soft hands back within his robes.

“Don’t look so frightened, my dear. There’s nothing in this Keep that I don’t know of. My birds are everywhere.”

“Does--does anyone else know?” Sansa asks, holding her hands together to still their shaking.

“No,” Lord Varys answers after a moment, “though I don’t expect His Grace would care, seeing as it’s you.”

Lord Varys’ facial expressions never seem to change but as Sansa looks into his eyes she imagines that he knows all her secrets, even those she keeps hidden in the darkest recesses of her heart.

“I don’t--I’m not certain--”

Lord Varys waves a hand dismissively. “I’m uninterested in your lies, my Lady, beautiful as both you and they may be.”

Sansa’s face flushes and she narrows cool eyes.

“Then what is your reason for frightening me beyond all sense?”

Lord Varys’ eyes grow a bit warmer. 

“I would ask that you watch out for our King. He’s more level-headed than his brother and certainly more so than the sister he tried to foist upon us.” Varys pauses. “There are those who would see him harmed. It isn’t easy to manipulate a man who doesn’t serve himself.”

Sansa laughs before she can squash the impulse and now she’s certain of the warmth in Lord Varys’ demeanor.

“Begging your pardon,” Sansa says, falling into step with Lord Varys, “but I don’t see how much good I could be to the King. I have no say in my own well-being.”

“Bright you are,” Lord Varys says, “but it’s the youth that makes you blind. The King seeks to deliver you back into the arms of the northmen you love so well. Maybe the journey will help you understand.”

Sansa is no less confused than she was when she first posed her question but Lord Varys’ quiet confidence in her abilities make something pleasant flare to life in her chest.

“You make little sense, Lord Varys, but neither do I find you cruel.”

Lord Varys bows to her a little and Sansa looks up to find them just outside of the throne room. He makes to take a left, presumably toward his snug apartments.

“You need only know where to look, my Lady, to find what you seek.”

He bows once more and exits her presence, his bearing almost regal for all that his stature is portly.

Sansa’s body still shakes as though she’s run over the moors in pursuit of her brothers, but she doesn’t know what to do with the energy.

She thought she’d be captured the entire time, dragged from her hiding place and sent to the dungeons.

_But you did it anyway._

Sansa nods to herself, brushing the cobwebs off of the intricate lace at her throat.

Maybe that’s what Lord Varys meant. She was always afraid. Afraid of the unknown, afraid of disappointment, afraid of facing a life without her father.

Maybe the trick is learning to live regardless.

Sansa thinks about Jon, sitting at the head of the table, before a council he never thought to own.

If only she could speak with him now and see what he was thinking, to see if he could touch her one last time.

She thinks about the long journey north and what she will be like when she returns. She’s seen a woman dead. Her father’s greatsword sits in her armoire.

She’s already walking back to her apartments before she can think better of it, knocking thrice on her door in a code she had long since worked out with Wylla.

Wylla opens the door, hair askew as though she’d been tugging on the thin strands.

“Seven,” Wyl hisses, dragging Sansa forward by her wrist.

“Have you been sightseeing? You’re like to send me to an early grave,” Wylla laments, throwing her body onto Sansa’s pillows.

Sansa laughs despite herself, squeezing Wylla’s ankle as she crosses to her desk.

“Well?” Wylla probes, moving so that she sits against the headboard.

“What was said? Do you know all the Crown’s secrets?”

Sansa twirls her hair around one finger and snorts. 

“Aye. The King means to burn the Keep and bring back the dragons.”

Sansa hears the pillow fly through the air before it hits the back of her head.

Sansa grabs it from the ground and clutches it to her breast in giddy relief.

“I deserve one secret,” Wylla murmurs in playful irritation. “I lose ten years of my life every time you do something foolish.”

Sansa hums, pulling scroll and quill from the drawers of her desk. 

“We’re to be sent home,” Sansa says slowly, pulling the burnished red inkpot closer to her writing hand.

Wylla makes a squealing sound. “Truly? Gods, that’s better than I could have hoped for.”

Sansa dips the tip of the quill in ink. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve grown rather partial to the smell of shit in the morning.”

Wylla snorts. “You’ll have to remember you’re the Rose of Winterfell when we return. Lady Catelyn will wash your mouth with lye soap if she hears what you’ve picked up from the princess.”

Sansa thinks of Rhaenys, hidden in her apartments as Ser Arthur’s baby grows within her. Jon will have to tell her that while Ser Arthur won’t be killed, he’ll never be free.

The thought is enough to make Sansa cry again. And the baby. What sort of life will the child have?

Sansa sets ink to parchment and begins to write.

_Robb,_

_I know the Maesters will send a raven with the news but I wanted to tell you in my own hand. His Grace, King Aegon was slain. I’m not privy to know by whom, but the maesters have said it was poison. The purpose of this letter is not that. What this means for me is that I’m to be sent home. I’m very excited to see you and mother and the little ones, even Arya, and you can tell her I said so. I know that our alliance with the Crown was in part recompense for what the Targaryens cost us in terms of family._

_The warring has since taken father from us too. It is very difficult to talk about that. It’s harder still to think of the fact that he went north with me and none of you were to ever see him again. I feel it my duty to tell you of his last. He chose to accompany the new King to battle and I’m sure Lord Arryn could tell you of his courage better than I._

_I also know that the King himself will send you a scroll (you’ll have a great many to read!) but it’s King Jon who will escort me home. He looks more like the blood of the wolf than all his dragonblood combined. He cut Lannister’s head for father and it was he that had father’s body sent North. He’ll have long since been interred in the family crypts before I get home to visit him._

_I have Ice. I’ll deliver that directly into your hand and will allow no other to touch it. I know we weren’t always very close, brother, as I was just a girl who couldn’t fight with you, nor plan battles, but I miss you greatly and I love you with all my heart._

_Please, please, don’t judge the new King until you’ve the chance to speak with him. He’s never had any mother at all and his own father is dead, just the same as ours. It would mean a great deal to him if you were to treat him with any measure of kindness._

_By the Old Gods,_

_Your sister,_

_Sansa Stark_

Sansa sprinkles sand across the page to dry the words and swipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. She doesn’t think she can bear seeing her family again in the absence of father. Winterfell isn’t home without him and she feels disloyal for even thinking it.

“Are you crying?” Wylla asks in concern, and Sansa shakes her head with a wet laugh.

“No. Not truly. It’s just hard, is all. To keep making a life for myself amongst so much death.”

Wylla makes a pained noise and Sansa is grateful that she doesn’t try to reply. Sansa doesn’t expect that anything could help.

Sansa pulls another piece of parchment from the dwindling stack on her desk and watches the slant of sunlight that falls through peach curtains.

She doesn’t believe that anyone would care about this scroll except herself but her heart still beats a bit faster as she sets her quill to write.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmfao, every time i post a chapter i expect that today with be the day that my boo tommyginger rightly beats me to death. (reading their analyses gives me so much life)
> 
> also, this is just writing itself at this point but if anyone is interested, i'll post a final author's note so i can share my real thoughts because if i try to do so while posting, i'll spoil everything lol
> 
> i love you all and please feed my desire for constant validation


	13. Chapter 13

Arthur

301 AC

He’s never known heat like this.

It permeates his pores and it would have cooked him alive in his chain had he been able to bring any of it.

He retained his House Targaryen livery, the three-headed dragon stamped across his chest and flaked with dried blood. The sight had sickened him during the trip over, the boat rocking against the waves as Arthur faced his greatest tragedy, night after night.

Whenever he closes his eyes he thinks of his final day in Westeros and he resolves that when he steps foot in this new land he will forget all that he has left in the before.

_He had given himself the time to weep once, situated in the White Sword Tower for the last time. Arthur hung his cloak on the hook closest to the door; Crabb would see it once he came in and held the first Kingsguard meeting as Lord Commander._

_Arthur reaches for his hilt on instinct and physically recoils when his hand lands on air, coming down to slap his thigh awkwardly._

_Crabb is coming to see him to Blackwater Bay, where he’s to ensure that Arthur boards the carrack headed to the port of his choosing. Summer’s Dream, it’s called. He could sail to Pentos, a shorter journey through the Bay and up through the Gullet but the companies are to be found in Braavos. In Braavos Arthur can hope to disappear or be felled in a fight to the last._

_It’s better that way. He won’t have to live the remainder of his days considering what he’s lost._

_Crabb is stationed just outside of the Tower and Arthur can hardly bear to face his pity. Arthur is an old man now. His dearest friend is buried in the Holy Sept and everyone else they loved died long ago, slain or maimed in Robert’s Rebellion._

_The knock at the door startles him and Arthur refuses to reach for an imaginary weapon._

_“Prisoners have no rights, Crabb. Come in then, boy.”_

_The door opens with more decisiveness than Arthur has come to expect from the knight and he raises his eyebrows in surprised delight._

_It isn’t Crabb, though it is a boy he saw knighted at tourney, long ago._

_Jon’s hair is tied back into a knot at the lower half of his head and the new hairstyle makes him look severe and unapproachable._

_This new head will probably wear the crown better for portraits._

_Arthur can’t help but look over the boy hungrily, so much less a child than when Arthur saw him last. There’s a new bearing to his shoulders and Arthur’s fist bleeds white by his side as he takes the measure of the new King._

_Rhaegar once wore his crown with the silvered pride of all Targaryen kings before him, but when he fought bloody for his birthright he came out the other side like a shroud; the ghost of the boy Arthur knew before._

_Jon carries a greatsword at his hip and he recognizes it to be Dawn by the distinct hilt of the fallen star and the way its five tendrils coalesce and fade into the milkglass of her blade._

_His hand aches for her and Jon closes the door behind him without looking._

_Arthur clears his throat._

_“Your Grace.”_

_Jon’s face crumples and Arthur opens his arms the way he used to do when Jon was just a boy and his father wasn’t free to speak with him, away on progress or fighting small skirmishes in the Iron Islands._

_“Oh, Jon,” Arthur says helplessly and Jon is of a height now and he has to duck his head a bit to nestle it in the crook of Arthur’s neck._

_“A King they make me and here I am, crying into your bosom as though you were my mother.”_

_The words are muffled and wet-sounding and Arthur barks out a laugh despite himself._

_Jon draws away and scrubs a fist against his eyes._

_“Aegon wanted your head,” Jon says plainly, his mouth pinched._

_“I went away to war and when I came back my sister told me that our brother was to have you executed.”_

_Arthur clears his throat and stops himself from reaching his out to the boy, his King, now, and he inclines his head instead._

_“Aye. Months he held me here, waiting for you to return. Aegon was best with you by his side, Jon. He always looked to you.”_

_Jon undoes his belt, laying Dawn’s scabbard atop the table in the Tower. He pulls out the nearest chair and sinks into it, reaching up a hand to run it through hair no longer curtained around his face._

_“I can’t think of it,” Jon says and Arthur finds that he sounds younger than he looks, his eyes old in his face._

_“You can’t know what I’ve done, Arthur. Lord Stark died protecting me. I sent--I sent his daughter ravens. I sent her ravens because she meant something to me and I wanted her to know it. It didn’t matter that she was promised to Egg. I can’t explain it. I cannot tell you why she mattered so much.”_

_Jon’s voice catches and Arthur steps close to him once more, reaching out a hand, but Jon rises in the same instant and crosses to the window where Arthur had just stood._

_“It’s bigger than you, Jon. We taught you, your father and I, we taught you and Aegon and your sister to consider every angle of a thing. It was better that way.”_

_Arthur allows his hand to settle on the slope of Jon’s shoulder and it tightens under his palm before it relaxes. Jon braces one arm against the window frame and Arthur cannot see his face._

_“There are some things that don’t have any angles. None that we can find, anyway. You can’t be made to make sense of it.”_

_Arthur’s fingers twitch and then his hand falls away. He doesn’t know how to speak to this new Jon. He doesn’t know how to show him to be King when there are no more Kings for him to know._

_“Was that how you came to bed Rhaenys?”_

_Jon’s voice is tight and when he turns around his eyes are blank._

_Arthur straightens, hands clasped behind his back._

_“If it please Your Grace, I would prefer not to speak of your sister.”_

_Jon sighs and he rubs at his chin._

_“That wasn’t fair of me. I don’t--Rhaenys.” Jon takes a deep breath. “It was her. To save you. She couldn’t bear to see you killed.”_

_Jon looks hard at him and then he opens his mouth and closes it as though he has reconsidered what he wanted to say._

_“She tried to consider all the angles. But I don’t think she could see past you.”_

_It’s Arthur’s turn to stumble and he does, horribly, his back catching against walls that have housed him since he and Rhaegar were boys playing in Aerys’ court._

_“I didn’t want it to be like this, Arthur,” Jon says. “You have to know it. You have to know how much you meant to me. How much you mean to me. I owe you my life.”_

_“I’m your Kingsguard until I step foot on that boat. I owe you mine.”_

_Jon nods once, sharply, and turns toward the table and grabs Dawn by the middle of the scabbard, thrusting her in Arthur’s direction._

_“It’s yours. It can’t go to any but the Sword of the Morning and it should be fighting alongside you, not collecting dust at Starfall.”_

_Jon smiles and Arthur can see the boy he knows in it, bright-eyed and careful._

_Arthur takes it automatically with hands that only know how to wield a sword in war and he attaches it to his hip with an internal sigh of relief. The weight of her makes what comes after more bearable._

_“You’ve been very merciful, Your Grace.” Arthur says, because anything less will make the parting harder to withstand._

_This is the end. He must face it the same way he did when he trekked with Jon through the Red Mountains of Dorne with a small loaf of bread in his pack and a half-filled flagon in his palm._

_He was certain they would die in the Dornish wildness. The outcome of the Rebellion was uncertain and Jon had no milk._

_Jon’s face twists but he straightens his spine as though he too understands._

_“Goodbye, Ser Arthur.”_

_Arthur bows at the waist until he hears the door close behind the King and then he turns to gather the last of his belongings._

Now the Essosi sun beats down upon Arthur’s heavy mane of hair and he ties it away from his face at the nape of his neck.

It’s longer than he likes, grown out due to the lengthy journey, but Arthur barely notices as he turns around on deck to look at the shadow the Titan of Braavos casts upon the lagoon. The roar the warrior-statue had made as Summer’s Dream approached had been loud enough to wake Arthur from a fitful nap.

It’s too hot for Westerosi chain and so Arthur sweats under the burden of his own history. 

He keeps a tight hold of Dawn, unwilling to risk having to behead any Braavosi foolish enough to attempt to steal the sword of House Dayne.

As Arthur’s eyes adjust he is jostled by seamen who holler at one another as they unload their wares under the watchful eyes of the Sealord’s inspectors.

Arthur himself waits with the cluster of other passengers from Westeros, some of them exiles like himself and others of more illustrious birth who are here to do business.

Arthur has often found himself unmistakable in large crowds and so he does as he has always done and strives to ignore the stares he receives due to his livery and great height.

The Chequey Port is loud and raucous at the peak of the noonday and Arthur is considering heading back below decks until the inspection has finished when he hears someone call his name.

He’s astounded enough at the familiar sound to break character and turn in search of the voice.

If there was any hope of his remaining anonymous it is gone now, and Arthur sighs deeply as meets the gaze of a portly man. The knight is gone grey with the fleeting remains of hair arranged haphazardly against a round head.

His armor is gilded and there rest seven golden rings on each of his fat fingers and a large gilt skull is painted upon his breastplate.

Those remaining on the deck grow silent at his presence and Arthur waits for the man to speak.

“My name is Harry Strickland, Ser Dayne, and we’ve been anxiously awaiting your landing in Braavos.”

Little surprises Arthur these days but he thinks that someone must have sent a raven portending his arrival. It seems that his ability to phase into obscurity must be forever compromised.

Arthur can see past the knight’s head to the domes and towers of the Sealord’s Palace. It bears the same ostentatious gold that Strickland does, a large thunderbolt rotating slowly atop a spire.

Arthur lowers his gaze.

“What is it you want from me? I’ve no sway in Westeros. Not anymore.”

It pains him to say it but the alternative is a more harmful sort of lie. A small boy scurries past the two knights, a crate balanced on skinny shoulders.

“Oy, take it past the sweetwater,” the boy yells, jostling Arthur’s arm as he rushes past. The familiarity is disconcerting and Strickland smiles ruefully.

“You’ll become accustomed soon enough. I don’t seek your Westerosi connections, Ser Arthur. The Sword of the Morning is the most famed knight in the Seven Kingdoms. It would be a shame to waste so many years of talent.”

Arthur grunts, hoisting his bag over one shoulder. 

“I’ve no desire to fight anymore.”

Merchants move out of his way as he descends the gangplank, crossing over onto the bridges that connect to the Canal.

Strickland hurries behind him and jogs up to his side, hands raised in supplication.

“You’ve no obligation to do anything. I do ask that you give me the chance to state my case. After all, Braavos is unlike Westeros. It will be difficult for a man to start from scratch.”

Arthur has a considerable amount of coin saved but he’s also not set to die anytime soon.

He closes his eyes and rocks with the crush of bodies.

“I’ll hear your offer.”

Strickland smiles so wide it wrinkles his cheeks into apples on his face.

“Good! I’ve a room at the Moon Pool Inn. It’s just past the Purple Harbor so it’s a quick journey.”

Arthur is not overfond of sea travel and the idea of walking on his own two feet after such an arduous journey by sea is appealing.

“Lead the way.”

They cross the Canal together and despite Strickland’s appearance, he holds the sort of bearing that comes from a man who has long been in a position of power.

They arrive at the beginning of one of the bridges that cross the Canal of Heroes and two knights come to flank Strickland, each of them dressed in flagrant gold accoutrements and both brandishing a tall pike with gilded skulls looped around the helm.

The sight is both morbid and curious and the skulls clink against one another as the knights move, almost encumbered by heavy mail in this thick heat.

One is a man with a heavy red beard and he is of a greater height than Arthur. He looks down at Strickland dispassionately but inclines his head in Arthur’s direction.

His skin is as pale as those in the North of Westeros but Arthur becomes distracted as Strickland points out feats of Braavosi architecture as they cross.

“There stand the dead Sealords,” Strickland says, motioning to elaborate statues of men in various states of dress. The statues age the further they walk across the bridge.

“When one Sealord dies the next statue is erected. It seems the thing to be done.”

Arthur nods although Strickland doesn’t stop to catch his response.

“Here, the crowds become almost unbearable. Stick close to Lothston, Peake, or myself or you’ll find yourself hopelessly lost.”

Strickland claps a hand down against Arthur’s arm and turns forward, bending his neck a bit as though to brace his body for impact.

Arthur follows suit and he hears the macabre jingle of skulls as the two sellswords follow in close proximity.

They come to the Moon Pool Inn as though they are water spit from a sieve.

Arthur’s hand is almost white on Dawn’s hilt. He trusts no one in the Free Cities, a stranger come among foreigners, and anything in his pack can be replaced.

The only two things of any importance he has kept on his person; his House sword and a lady’s kerchief in Targaryen coloring.

That he keeps next to his breast.

Strickland’s face is flushed and sweaty when he turns round, rubbing bejeweled fingers together.

“My toes are prone to blisters. I’m not a man meant for long treks,” Strickland says with a self-deprecating laugh.

Lothston makes a disparaging noise behind Arthur but Peake remains soundless.

Arthur slowly releases Dawn and when they enter the front rooms of the Inn, the heat instantly becomes less stifling and Arthur feels as though he might be able to breathe again.

Strickland walks like a man on a mission and the rumble of chain is louder in an enclosed space.

They reach Strickland’s rooms with little fanfare and Lothston and Peake turn instantly to guard the outer door, skullhead pikes resting at their sides.

Arthur spares them one final glance before entering Strickland’s outer chambers.

“I thought it best that I get to you before the Titan’s Bastard sneaks under my nose.”

Arthur unhooks Dawn from his hip and settles into a chair. He lays his sword across his leg and reaches for the pitcher of water on the table.

“You suspect all the free company commanders to proposition me?”

Strickland nods, pulling out his own chair and sets to work unlacing his boots.

“Forgive me for saying so, but we’ve not seen your like in the Free Cities in quite some time. Bittersteel founded my company. The Golden Company. You’ve served House Targaryen all your life. This is just another piece of them.”

Arthur takes a long draught of water and sets the cup down with a clang.

“And what if I never wished to hear another word of House Targaryen? What if I wished to be free of all of that? I am not incapable of manual labor.”

Strickland looks mildly surprised but covers it well in the same instant.

“You have the right to do whatever you choose. In the Free Cities, a man can be as he wishes. But you are a man accustomed to a certain...respect. I fear you’ll find life dull without the rush of battle and the company of men who understand it.”

Arthur scratches at his untidy beard. There’s much truth to Strickland’s claims. He’ll be forced to join some company or other when the time comes. It’s allegiance or harassment and Arthur’s getting older.

“What do you have that I can’t find elsewhere, Ser Strickland?”

Harry looks delighted to be asked, leaving one boot on his left foot.

“We’re the most powerful company in the Free Cities and if I say so myself, we strive to be men of honor. It’s much harder to corral men without a sense of--of duty. Of brotherhood. We never break a contract, so we’re careful of those we choose to take.”

Arthur nods. Some of this he already knew, the product of Varys’ whispers in court.

“We’ve ten thousand men and some five hundred knights, like yourself. Equal the number of squires and three horses to every knight,” Strickland says with no small amount of pride.

“And we have _elephants.”_

Arthur doesn’t attempt to school the shock on his face and Strickland laughs loudly, clapping his hands together.

“Aye, that’s just so. Two dozen, by my counting. Magnificent beasts. You’ll see when you meet them.”

Arthur feels as though his fate has already been decided. When has it ever been any different, though?

When he was a boy of twelve he was knighted and named the Sword of the Morning, the bearer of his family’s honor. It has weighed him down all his life.

Then he had taken Kingsguard oaths that had constrained him further, robbed him of any chance he might have had of making something for himself.

There were no oaths stating that he couldn’t bed Rhaenys, except for the love he had for Rhaegar. 

He remembers her eyes and the soft curve of her body underneath his and Arthur can’t find it in himself to regret their coupling.

He and Rhaegar bedded many women in their youth but Rhaenys was the first he chose for himself and the first he kept to himself.

He is paying the price for that now. Self-flagellation serves no one.

Strickland looks at him expectantly and Arthur raises a hand to his chest and rubs at where the kerchief sits.

“Will you allow me to take the night to decide?”

Strickland nods so vigorously that Arthur worries that his fat head will fall from his neck.

“Aye, Ser Dayne. I told you. I don’t intend to press you into service. I’ve a head for gold, is all, and I think you’ll make plenty of it.”

Arthur shrugs; gold means nothing to him. He feels like a man trying on the ill-fitting clothes of a child.

“And if I refuse your offer, you let me be on my way.” Arthur drags Dawn slightly out of her scabbard just to watch the way the light hits the cream of her blade.

Strickland’s face pales under the implicit threat. “Aye, Ser Dayne. We aren’t in the habit of _forcing_ men to join the brotherhood.”

Arthur rises, clutching Dawn in his right fist.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Strickland stands as well, clapping his hands together in what appears to be a nervous tic.

“Great! I’ve taken the liberty of having some rooms arranged for you. The merchants always dock this late in the week and it can be difficult to find lodging. They are paid for until tomorrow, in which you’ll reach your decision and my men and I begin the journey to Pentos.”

Strickland crosses over to the doors and drags them wide, motioning out from in between Peake and Lothston.

“Your rooms are next door. I’ve paid advance coin for any meals.”

Strickland looks pleased and Arthur finds himself warming to the man despite his best efforts.

He resembles a warrior little but nor does he carry any malice.

“Thank you, Ser Strickland. You’ll have my decision by the morn, either way.”

Arthur nods to Lothston and Peake as he exits, walking down the narrow hall and to the right.

The door to his rooms opens soundlessly under his touch and when Arthur closes it behind himself he has the strangest urge to sink to the floor.

There isn’t any time to consider all of the things Arthur’s lost and even less time to acclimate himself to living in a City where he has no connections and no friends.

Arthur turns to the wide window in his apartments. The Moon Pool Inn is very obviously wealthy and it rests on a slight hill almost equal to the outcropping of rock that comprises the Arsenal.

Braavos is elegant and cultured in an unfamiliar way and Arthur can recognize only a few of the tongues as wealthy Braavosi pass the Inn below him.

Arthur pulls Rhaenys’ kerchief from within his shirt and presses the square of fabric to his nose.

He wonders how long it will be before it seems as though it never smelled like her at all.

-

Rhaenys

302 AC

Uncle Viserys was uninterested in organizing the courtly festivities for the Conqueror’s Coronation at the start of the New Year.

Rhaenys is past five moons with child now and so she directs foot traffic from her rooms, only using the ladies she trusts.

The court is aware that she carries a bastard but none are the wiser as to whose it might be.

The nobles put up a negligible fuss at her Regency, as Uncle sits the Iron Throne and hears the paupers and organizes the meetings with the small council as Hand.

Rhaenys could have done all those things in Jon’s stead had she not been with child.

She presses a hand to her stomach and uses her free hand to force herself to rise from her chair. 

The rocking chair moves alarmingly with the shift in her weight and Rhaenys takes a deep breath as the baby makes heavy kick in the center of her abdomen.

She had first thought the babe’s movements were hunger pains or gas and she had become increasingly irritated before the Maesters reminded her that her babe would be quickening any day now.

She rubs a hand over the spot and hums down at the only part of Arthur she will ever have left.

Confined to her rooms as she is, she can’t often make herself feel lonely.

Her isolation is the product of all her mistakes. There are few other ways she can suffer.

Rhaenys’ dress is made of a dark green fabric that would have favored Sansa’s eyes. Sansa had made it for her just before she left, placing the bundle of Rhaenys’ bed when she came to say goodbye.

Sansa had made it with the babe in mind and so it was bigger than Rhaenys was at the time, though she had just begun to show.

“You’re a terrible thing. You have all of your mother’s attention, day and night. It’s you and I until the end, my love,” Rhaenys thinks, her fingers digging into the soft roundness of her stomach.

She might have been able to understand her own mother better if this had happened before Elia had died. 

Rhaenys would have apologized. She was a headstrong child with two brothers meant to be King. She didn’t know how to be a girl nor did she know how to want a mother.

Rhaenys crosses over to her small dining table, removing the lid from her noonday meal. Her stomach rebels at most fish but there is a small cut of lamb topped with gravy and a portion of roasted potatoes on the side.

Her stomach doesn’t roil alarmingly but she replaces the lid when she hears a rap at the door.

Rhaenys drags her skirts up with both hands so she can hurry over to the entrance.

“Princess, the Lord Hand comes to call.”

It’s Manning outside her rooms; Crabb has long since graduated to greener pastures, and Rhaenys steps aside as her door swings open.

Uncle strides through with little fanfare and closes the door quickly behind him to hide her view from the public.

“Seven forbid anyone see me gravid with a babe,” Rhaenys says drily, and Uncle smiles in response.

They had never gotten along when Rhaenys was a child, mostly because Uncle Viserys spent most of his visits doting upon babes that could have been his little brothers at the time.

Uncle Viserys had been quick-witted and cutting, often sending Egg into paroxysms of tears that Uncle and Jon would have to cajole him out of.

Jon himself never grew sharp of tongue but nor was he perturbed or outmaneuvered by those who were.

Rhaenys expects that Uncle was the reason for that.

“Hush, child. I am not your enemy.”

Uncle uncaps Rhaenys’ meal with a contemplative look.

“Are you eating very well? The first child is often the hardest.”

Rhaenys’ countenance softens when she remembers that Uncle lost his first wife in childbed. 

A slight thing, Shireen Baratheon was. The babe had survived. A niece named Laena that Rhaenys hadn’t seen since before the girl had her first blood.

“Aye, Uncle. As well as can be expected. The babe decides whether it or I is fit to eat for the day.”

“It’s been like that for Cairn at the end. She’ll have had the babe for several months by the time I next make a visit to Storm’s End.”

Rhaenys puts a hand on her lower back and Uncle moves quickly, pulling out her rocking chair and guiding her to sit in it.

“You should send for your family,” Rhaenys says breathlessly. “Jon--the King would love to have them. It would be nice to have a few little Targaryens running around the Keep again.”

Uncle Viserys looks at her strangely and Rhaenys raises both hands to cup the swell of her belly.

“I’ll send for Laena. I need to see her wed soon and she’ll expect to see her suitors in person,” Uncle laughs, and Rhaenys cannot help but join in.

“She sounds headstrong,” Rhaenys admits and Uncle nudges her plate towards her.

Rhaenys picks up her silverware reluctantly, having found that her appetite has mostly fled.

“I don’t expect Daemon or Daeron will come to court any time soon. I’m not one to place all my eggs in one basket, so to speak.”

Rhaenys cuts into her lamb with the flat of her knife.

The twins must be five and ten now, with that vibrant Tully hair. The babe kicks roughly and Rhaenys sets her fork down.

“What will you do?” Uncle says, his violet eyes trained upon hers.

Rhaenys is older than her Aunt Daenerys and has only met her twice. Lannister kept his family sequestered in the Westerlands but she knows that all of Aunt Dany’s babes came out with Targaryen coloring.

Rhaenys has little hope that this babe will look like anything but a Martell. The Dornish blood is strong between the two of them.

“I’ll have the babe and pray I don’t die in the process.”

Uncle’s face twists. 

“Aye. That wit will serve you well when the Stranger comes and asks for your hand.”

Rhaenys blanches under the censure.

“What would you have me say, Uncle? My mother is dead. My father--” Rhaenys throat nearly closes and Uncle sits next to her, drawing one of her hands into his own.

“And Aegon is gone as well.”

That one is the worst to say. Rhaenys has little right to grieve her little brother but she does so regardless. Every time she closes her eyes she remembers his purple eyes and gap-toothed grin as a child.

“I am living for this babe and this babe alone.”

Uncle runs his thumb across the arch of her knuckles.

“The King has re-formed his small council before he left. The sons of your father’s men. There’s no need to fear them.”

Rhaenys chokes out a laugh.

“Aye. Then why did Jon name me Regent and you Hand? The law rests with you.”

Uncle raises a silver eyebrow.

“Would you like to wrangle the master of coin and the master of whispers in an effort to see how many ships we can afford to send to Myr? And all that with a belly the size of a whale?”

Rhaenys flushes. Uncle doesn’t stand on ceremony in private but Rhaenys still squirms in shame.

“Any Targaryen woman that becomes Queen must wed her brother. If you and Jon wed, you’ll have your throne,” Uncle says.

Rhaenys sneers at the thought and almost rips her hand from his.

“I don’t want it. And neither would I take Jon’s only chance at happiness to get it.”

Uncle hums complacently.

“But you’ve given up your own happiness, Rhaenys. And for what? Or should I ask, for who?”

Rhaenys does pull her hand free and stabs at now-chilled lamb meat.

“Your brother is King now, Rhaenys. When he returns, the bulk of ruling rests on his shoulders. He’ll have no time to manage your sordid affairs.”

Rhaenys’ ears tip-turn red and she opens her mouth to yell when Uncle stands, crossing his arms against his chest.

“We’re Targaryens. The strongest House to ever live. The blood of old Valyria and at one time, dragonlords. There’s nothing you could tell me that would make me refuse to save you, Rhaenys. Fire and Blood.”

Rhaenys stuffs a piece of meat in her mouth and chews, looking everywhere but at Uncle Viserys.

“There’s no one available to punish for my condition. There’s nothing you could do to fix anything, Uncle.”

Uncle looks down upon her bowed head in silence and then,

“It belongs to the Sword of the Morning, doesn’t it?”

Rhaenys stiffens, just a particle, but it’s enough.

Uncle doesn’t bother sitting down again but he walks to her window with a thoughtful hum.

“You fought so hard for his freedom,” Uncle says. “The King granted him exile. The best he could do after King Aegon’s death.”

Rhaenys doesn’t bother to refute the statement.

“And now you know all, Uncle. I hope you take everything back to the small council with great relish.”

Rhaenys twists halfway in her seat to look at him and Uncle waves his hand dismissively without turning around.

“Your brother knows. Varys told me. And you’ve confirmed it.”

Rhaenys stiffens in anger.

“Then what game have you come to play? You’re the Hand of the King. You have never needed me.”

Uncle continues to gaze out at King’s Landing, bringing up an arm to rest against the window frame.

“I came to let you know that you have no secrets, niece. For me to protect you--” Uncle cuts himself off and turns so quickly to kneel at Rhaenys’ side that she lets out a small shout, “and for me to protect it, you must be honest with me.”

Rhaenys grips the armrests with white-knuckled hands and the babe seems to react to her stress, kicking at her lower belly with the ferocity it usually reserves for the early morn.

“What do you plan to do with the babe once it is born? Call it Waters and raise it in the Keep alongside its noble cousins? Does he even know of his child?”

Rhaenys snarls at the thought. 

“There was no need to tell him. And my babe will never be born a bastard. Jon will legitimize it. It’ll have the House name of Dayne and I’ll--”

Rhaenys pauses in thought. To raise the child here would be to subject it to ridicule. She wouldn’t wish court life on any fatherless child.

“I’ll send it to be raised at Starfall,” Rhaenys says, and her body sags with the decision.

Uncle Viserys’ eyes soften.

“And you, child? What will you do once you’ve sent your babe to Dorne?”

Rhaenys laughs in his face and for the first time all day, Uncle seems caught unawares.

“That’s for the King to decide. After all, as we both know, I’m not yet wed.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like a hoe, I've TENTATIVELY upped the chapter count. The last few chapters should be rather long but I think I'll manage to contain them into the space allotted lol


	14. Chapter 14

Jon

302 AC

Sansa’s name day passed two days before they arrived at Winterfell.

She said nothing of it and Jon only became aware when Lady Manderly presented her with a small gift, wrapped in a kerchief of Manderly colors.

Sansa’s face had flushed in delight and Jon had been unable to take his eyes off of her--and nor had he bothered to be silent.

“It’s your nameday?”

Sansa had looked across the kingsroad at him with cheeks flooded rose.

“Aye, Your Grace. It’s close to the start of the new year. I might’ve forgotten it if not for Wylla,” Sansa admits and Jon wonders if he could have something commissioned.

The horses were eating before they finished the journey and Jon’s brow furrowed in frustration.

“Don’t worry, Your Grace, my mother is sure to have a feast in the Great Hall to make up for it.”

Sansa seemed equal parts excited and nervous and her ladies surrounded her and giggled at the proclamation. 

Lady Manderly seemed to be sizing him up in a way she didn’t back in King’s Landing, but here they are in Northern territory. 

Jon felt painfully southron in the moment.

Now they’ve arrived at Winterfell and a part of Jon feels humbled to be in a place so very old and fraught with history.

Sansa is talking more than he’s ever heard her before and he offers her his arm as she alights from the ladies’ carriage.

“The godswood is over ten thousand years old,” she says, “and that’s where we go to worship the Old Gods. When I was younger and I fancied myself a southron princess, I thought to worship in my mother’s sept.” Sansa pauses to lift her skirts above the crush of mud beneath her feet.

“My father--”she pauses, the words stuck in her throat, and Jon can’t help but squeeze her arm in sympathy. 

There go whole days where he forgets that his father is dead. It seems to Jon that he’s gone away on a long progress. 

They saw so little of him as they grew older, after all.

“My father had the sept built for my mother when they were first wed. It was strange for her to come north with no mention of the Seven.” Sansa’s small fingers dig into his forearm and Lady Manderly follows a few steps behind to ensure propriety.

“Does the godswood in the Red Keep compare?” Jon asks, and Sansa’s face flushes.

“Winterfell’s is ten thousand years old. The old Starks raised the very castle around it.” Sansa’s voice falls with awe.

It’s not the first time that he considers just how old the Stark lineage truly is. When his ancestors were dragonlords before the Doom, Sansa’s were here, holding court with the Old Gods and communing with direwolves, if the legends are to be believed.

“There is a giant weirwood in the very center. I’ll show it to you after the festivities.”

Sansa pauses as they come to stop at Winterfell’s gates. The castle itself is surrounded by two walls, the first around eighty or so feet high and the one behind it even taller, perhaps by twenty feet.

“There’s a moat between the two,” Sansa whispers, although Jon’s horse and men-at-arms are murmuring loudly behind them.

“Aye, so the men are more like to drown if they aren’t shot by all the archers in the guard turrets,” Jon teases and Sansa bites down at her lower lip in a smile.

“That’s what Robb always said, yes,” she says and Jon has to look away.

Her brilliance has been dulled in King’s Landing, shrouded by the misery and death that came to call the Red Keep home, and Jon can see how she flourishes, surrounded by trees and earth.

It was good that he brought her home. They should have never taken her away from it.

The turrets are adorned with the direwolf of House Stark and when Jon’s party crosses the drawbridge, he keeps Sansa close at hand.

She pauses as they pass through the wide gate that leads through the inner wall and her eyes are large and teal as they look into his.

“If anyone says anything--untoward, I don’t want you to think they mean it.” Her little face scrunches up and she tucks a curl behind an ear.

“I don’t want you to have your feelings hurt,” she says shyly, and Jon’s chest does something complicated.

“I have thick skin, sweetling,” Jon says and the tips of his ears color as the endearment exits unbidden.

She blinks those heavy eyes at him but there isn’t more of a chance to react because the doors are unbarred and the smiling faces of every remaining Stark meet their eyes instead.

Sansa drops her hands from his and rushes forward, sweeping her skirts up into her fists.

It’s the least ladylike behavior he’s ever witnessed from her and there’s something so blessedly innocent about it that he motions for his men to remain motionless behind him.

Sansa’s retinue moves forward as well, talking jovially with friends they haven’t seen in several moons.

The Lady Stark stands at the front of the greeting party, flanked on either side by a man with auburn curls and a boy with aquiline features and the dark coloring that renders his blood Stark. 

Sansa runs to her mother and nearly bowls her over in an attempt to secure a hug.

Lady Stark’s impassive eyes leave Jon for a moment as her arms wind around her second eldest child.

The man beside Sansa’s mother brings his broad palm down against Sansa’s soft hair and she swings her head from her mother’s breast to meet his gaze.

This must be Robb Stark, new Lord of Winterfell.

The lines around his eyes are hard but his mouth is soft as he bends double to press a kiss to Sansa’s forehead.

Jon takes an aborted step forward but then there comes the shrieking bark of some kind of animal--and whatever it is sounds _beastly--_ followed by a girl even smaller than Sansa.

He thinks it’s a girl at least; she’s covered in what looks to be riding leathers, with a faded gown atop the strange ensemble.

Her hair falls in two disheveled braids down to the small of her back and her right cheek is dusted in what appears to be charcoal.

Lady Stark’s face looks mildly pinched and she casts a worried glance at Jon before moving Sansa to stand at her side.

“Sansa!” the girl cries and Jon recalls her name just before Sansa breaks into a smile and exclaims it herself.

“Arya!”

On Arya’s heels follows the largest seemingly-domesticated animal Jon has ever seen and he feels his men go rigid behind him and watches Crabb motion for the archers to get in position.

“It’s a direwolf. Not but a pup,” Jon hears Robb Stark say as he steps forward to press one hand against the wolf’s back.

“Nymeria, to me,” Arya chirps and the direwolf comes to a rather graceful halt by Sansa’s skirts, her nose upturned as she sniffs out the new company.

“She’s so much bigger than when I saw her last,” Sansa breathes, turning half in Jon’s direction.

“J--Your Grace,” she stutters, ears turning pink, and Jon doesn’t think the verbal slip goes unnoticed by the two eldest Starks.

“Would you like to pet her? She’s Arya’s but she wouldn’t hurt a moonbloom,” Sansa coos, unfolding her hands to bury them in grey fur.

Arya looks up at her name, fist dug deep into her pockets in an effort to secure Nymeria another treat, and her grey eyes widen sharply.

“Sansa. Sansa, Robb said you were bringing the King but you’ve brought the _King_ to Winterfell!”

Sansa’s face flushes again and she busies herself in scratching Nymeria’s ears.

“Arya,” Lady Stark says sharply and Arya glances quickly at her mother before taking two short steps in Jon’s direction.

Jon has the strangest urge to drop to one knee to better meet her eyes and Arya tucks one heavy chestnut braid behind an ear, so different from the flame of her sister’s. They look almost nothing alike except for the porcelain of their skin.

“I’m going to be in trouble shortly,” she informs him, and Jon cannot help the smile that passes over his face.

He never had a little sister. No one younger than him at all. It might have been nice to have someone look up at him this way.

He and Egg were too close in age and unintentionally pitted against one another for Father’s attention.

Rhaenys teased, bullied, and mothered them by equal turns, but Jon would have liked having someone little to cajole him like this.

“You’ve ridden all the way from King’s Landing to bring Sansa home?”

Jon nods, giving in and dropping to one knee in the dirt. 

Sansa squeaks from somewhere behind her sister and Jon removes his crown, a circlet of Valyrian steel, studded with the rubies that had remained after Robert Baratheon hit father in the chest at the Trident.

Arya’s eyes dip to the crown in his hands and back to his face.

“What’s it like being King? You fought with my father at the Trident. They said he saved your life.”

“Arya!” Lady Stark’s eyes dart to him and she doesn’t seem, warm, exactly, but she does look as though she’s uncertain of Arya’s reception.

“Aye. I wear a crown often and listen to the poor come to speak at the Iron Throne. Sometimes there’s killing and often traveling.” Jon has never spoken so bluntly to a child, much less a maid, but Arya looks as though she wouldn’t stand for anything less than his honesty.

“Your father saved my life. He slew a man three times his size. I am forever in his debt.”

She hums thoughtfully under her breath. 

“I named Nymeria after the warrior queen. She conquered Dorne and brought ten thousand ships ‘cross the Narrow Sea. And the Dornishmen wouldn’t surrender to your great-something-or-other grandfather nor his dragons.” Arya’s little chin is pointed high and Jon can hear her family murmuring behind her.

“Aye,” Jon says carefully. “She defeated six Dornish kings. It’s a strong name. The Conqueror could never take Dorne. It cost Queen Rhaenys her life.”

Arya nods once and Jon feels strangely pleased at her attention.

“Nymeria, to me.”

The direwolf bounds next to her with a great leap and Jon has to brace a fist on the packed earth beneath him to prevent himself from flinching. 

The direwolf has uncanny eyes, dripping gold in the fading light.

“You have wolf-eyes,” Arya whispers and then she’s turning, the soiled hem of her skirts brushing his shin.

“I’m going Mother,” Arya says pleasantly, “I was trying to help clean Rickon but you know how he cries and cries the moment he sees the wash basin. Come, Bran, they’re going to talk about dull things and tell us we aren’t allowed to listen anyhow.”

The boy standing on the other side of his mother steps forward, his brown hair curling against his forehead. He and Arya are the same height but he looks younger, his cheeks still soft with baby fat.

“No climbing before the feast, Bran,” Lady Stark admonishes him preemptively, and Bran’s face twists.

“I never fall!” he cries as Arya drags him away by the wrist, and Nymeria looks at Jon one last time before trotting after her master.

Sansa looks as though she’s fighting a smile and Jon realizes that he’s still knelt on the ground like a pauper.

“Pardon me, Lady Stark, Lord Stark,” Jon says, and Sansa sweeps her cloak behind her back.

It’s Robb who steps forward, as it should be, Jon thinks, now that Ned Stark is buried below, in their crypts.

“I’ve sent my men to help yours settle into the Keep, Your Grace. Your horses will be washed and fed.”

Jon meets his eye and Robb drops sharply to one knee in obsequience.

“Aye, none of that, now,” Jon says fitfully and hooks a hand underneath Robb’s arm to help him rise.

Robb looks like Sansa and her mother, his eyes a rich Tully blue.

“Your Grace,” Robb says respectfully, “if it please you, there are matters we must discuss.”

Jon supposes there are.

He nods and then comes to a halt, recalling the other reason he traveled to Winterfell.

Jon motions to a squire, a greenboy from House Pyle. Pyle comes to his side soundlessly and Jon rubs at his chin.

“Bring me House Stark’s greatsword,” he says in a hushed tone and Pyle bows sharply at the waist and sprints to Jon’s carriage to retrieve it.

“Your father, the former Lord of his House,” Jon says loudly, so loudly that the assembled stop and give him their full attention. They had assumed the greetings were over and had started to break away to attend to their duties.

Robb’s back straightens with the words and Lady Stark reaches out to touch his elbow, just lightly.

“He died at the River Trident. I was there to see him fall. I took Tyrion Lannister’s head for it, using his greatsword, Ice. I’ve come all this way to bring it home.”

Pyle, who will be afforded as many cups of mead as he can stand before the day’s end, seamlessly hands Jon the sword and scabbard as he finishes speaking.

The scabbard has an aged direwolf covering the surface, its tail winding up and around until it settles just below Ice’s hilt.

It’s Jon’s turn to drop to one knee and he does, offering the greatsword up to Robb.

The crowd is making noise at his subservient position but he doesn’t care, not truly, not after he saw the light leave Ned’s eyes and certainly not after he rode to King’s Landing to tell his daughter that she was never to see her father again.

Robb takes Ice with both hands and as Jon feels the weight of it lift he rises to meet Robb’s gaze.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Robb says, his voice thick, and Jon’s eyes dart to Sansa but her face is buried in her mother’s shoulder.

“Let’s retire.”

*

Robb’s study is older than the both of them, passed down from Stark to Stark for tens of thousands of years.

Robb lays Ice on the large desk in the center of the room and Jon steps aside to allow Lady Stark to sit at her son’s side.

“I want to thank you for bringing my daughter home,” Lady Stark begins, and Jon’s eyes dart from Robb’s face to his mother’s.

Jon tips his head in acknowledgment.

“After my brother was killed--” Jon very nearly stumbles over the words, still grossly unfamiliar, “I thought it best to bring her back to those who loved her. King’s Landing is a terrible place to be left alone.”

Lady Stark nods once and Jon can see the rigidity of her bearing in Sansa. She’s implacable.

“We were sorry to hear that, Your Grace. Losing so many so quickly must have been horrible.”

She says it as though she means it, in that distinct motherly cadence that Jon has heard directed to others all his life.

To hear her say it so plainly to him almost makes bile rise from the pit of his stomach.

What would his mother think of him now? Her brother slain for Jon’s head, his sister a kinslayer.

Jon clears his throat and steeples his chin beneath his fingers.

“Thank you for your kind words. I was raised for every outcome,” Jon says without a trace of bitterness, and Lady Stark’s eyes soften.

“Mother,” Robb says kindly, and Lady Stark sits back in her seat, deferring to her son.

“You’ve brought me my father’s sword,” Robb says, “and my sister, untouched.”

Jon inclines his head. 

“My father rode to King’s Landing to secure peace between the North and House Targaryen. Pardon my familiarity, Your Grace, but you and I were born at the tail end of a bloody war. It did not endear our houses to one another.”

Jon knows that Aegon’s hackles would be raised by now and he tries to channel some of his brother’s latent rage.

“Aye, that’s so. But your father wanted peace more than anything. With the North and my House united, we would have it. The Vale and the Riverlands are loyal to the Crown but I daresay most of their loyalties reside with you, Lord Stark.”

Robb’s eyebrow twitches up in muted surprise.

“I’m no fool. The Iron Throne belongs to House Targaryen by Fire and Blood. I’m not a bloodthirsty man by nature but I’ll see no fools take what is mine.”

Robb’s hair is darker than Sansa’s but he can see the red swirls in it from the wink of the candles strewn about the room.

“I want peace. I want no part in any wars or rebellions. We’ve had peace this long and father wanted to make it stick,” Robb says.

Lady Stark looks between the two of them with pinched lips.

“He meant for Sansa to marry the heir to the Iron Throne.”

Jon recoils.

“My brother--King Aegon is dead.”

“Aye, Your Grace, but you still breathe.”

Jon’s knuckles turn white around his armrests but it’s Lady Stark who stands.

“I’ve only just had my daughter returned,” she hisses and then her face pales, as though she didn’t intend to unleash the outburst.

Robb looks up at his mother with a pained expression.

“I know mother. It’s glorious to see her. But she can’t remain here. She never could.”

Lady Stark is motionless for one protracted second and then she sits soundlessly, nodding tightly in her son’s direction.

“Robb is going to tell you that he would like you to take Sansa’s hand, Your Grace,” Lady Stark says, and Robb appears unperturbed that his mother has interrupted.

Jon thinks of it. He owes the North his life and taking the Rose of Winterfell as the next Queen of the Seven Kingdoms would be a start.

She was always supposed to be Queen. Just not his.

Jon’s fight leeches out of him with the thought.

“I would be--honored to take Lady Sansa’s hand. But I would like to ask her for it.”

Robb’s eyes turn calculating and then they warm. 

“The only permission you require is my sister’s,” Robb says and Jon figures that’s as close to acceptance as he will get tonight.

Lady Stark stands again but this time her rise is measured.

Jon follows suit and then Robb, turning toward the door in unison.

“Thank you for taking Lannister’s head,” Lady Stark says abruptly, crossing before the two men to open the door.

Jon’s jaw tightens.

“Lord Stark was my Uncle,” Jon says firmly, the first time he’s voiced it aloud. 

Robb nods, a hand settling into the small of his mother’s back to guide her from the study.

“So was Lannister,” Robb says softly, and Jon hums in response. 

“Not by blood.”

*

Jon fusses with his hair in the mirror provided in his rooms.

The Starks had cleared the master chambers for his use and he wishes they hadn’t done so.

Lord Stark slept in this bed at one time and he could do without the ghosts of the family he never knew.

He wonders where his mother slept. Sansa once told him that her father never spoke of Lyanna and he understands why.

It must have been torturous, living in the same space that used to hold her breath.

He thinks of King’s Landing. He’s meant to live and rule there until he dies. He’ll have to hear Father’s laugh and Egg’s teasing until he breathes his last.

Jon’s fingers slip on the needle point of the three-headed-dragon pin, slicing cleanly into his thumb.

“Fuck! By the Seven!” he spits, sucking down on the dollop of red.

He and Rhaenys have been left an inheritance of death.

There’s a knock at his door and Jon gives absent-minded permission and Pyle scurries through, his cheeks scrubbed pink with lye and cold northern water.

“You’re going to get blood on your shirt, Your Grace,” Pyle reprimands. “Let me do it.”

Jon’s arms drop to his side, useless, as Pyle affixes the pin to his breast, tilting it so that all three dragons are breathing false fire toward the room at large.

“Which crown would you like to wear, Your Grace?”

Jon sighs and passes a hand over Pyle’s shoulder, clapping the muscle in acknowledgement of the question.

He’s brought the circlet and father’s crown. His own is lighter but it’s made for a prince. The Iron Throne is already a painful seat and he supposes the crown should be an additional reminder of the cost.

“King Rhaegar’s,” Jon says quietly and Pyle makes an oddly soothing hum in agreement.

“It’ll look well if you keep your hair up like you have it, Your Grace,” Pyle says and Jon laughs shortly.

“Whatever you think best, Pyle.”

Pyle sets the crown upon his head. It has seven spires and it gleams dully in the candlelight.

It’s made of Baratheon’s warhammer and there is only one small ruby embedded at the tip of the tallest point.

“How do I look?” Jon asks in jest and Pyle scrutinizes him, oak-colored curls bouncing when he nods.

“Like a King, Your Grace.”

Jon’s body twitches at the pronouncement but he doesn’t have time to ruminate; Pyle is dusting off his breeches and pushing him out of the door, as much as he can without touching the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Everything will be fine, Your Grace,” Pyle mumbles as they hurry along the corridor, Pyle carrying a torch aloft to light their way.

“You look like a northman. They haven’t forgotten.”

Jon comes to a sharp halt and Pyle’s blood drains from his face. His skin looks waxy and pale by firelight.

“I’m--I’m sorry, Your Grace. I didn’t mean to be familiar, truly, I didn’t--”

Jon holds up a hand and rests it on the nape of the boy’s neck.

“Hush, Pyle. How do you know?”

“Lord Manderly is my grandsire, Your Grace. My mother was sent from White Harbor to wed my father.”

Jon’s face softens and he squeezes once before releasing the boy.

They come to the doors of the Great Hall and Jon smiles down at his squire.

“Now, be sure to tell me if I’m doing something foolish, aye?”

He doesn’t stop to look for a response, striding through as guards in House Stark livery bow before opening the doors.

The Great Hall comes to a sudden silence and Jon listens for the scrape of chairs as the assembled drop to one knee in unison.

It’s a terrible thing, this much power.

He’s seen it happen to father all his life, and for a short time, Egg. He was perfectly fine blending into the shadows.

He forces a smile upon his face and thinks of father’s jovial spirit. He was good at feasts, at tourney. He loved spectacle.

“Rise! The longer you kneel the less you can eat!”

The crowd bursts into sound again, mostly with laughter.

Lady Stark meets him at the doors and he offers her his arm. She takes it with a sweet curtsey and guides him to the raised dais at the front of the Hall.

All of House Stark is seated, except for the littlest Starks. Even Arya is at her place, hair braided in two long lines down her back.

She is much cleaner than when he saw her earlier and her cheeky face splits into a wide grin when she sees him.

“Mother! Can the King sit next to me?”

Arya leans so far forward that her hair is in danger of catching fire from the candelabra.

“Sit back, Arya before you burn like a juicy steak.”

Jon stifles his own snort and Arya pouts for a second.

“You can see the wolves later. You can even meet Runt! He doesn’t like people, though!”

Jon is hard pressed to leave Arya’s engaging chatter but he does gently lift his crown from his brow and tip it in her direction.

“My lady,” he teases and she flushes pink before stabbing at what appears to be some sort of meat pie.

It’s with good spirits that Lady Stark guides him to his own seat and it’s at the center of the table, between Robb and Sansa.

His eyes light on Sansa out of long-practiced habit and he stumbles a bit before settling into his chair.

Her hair is completely down, no wave to it at all. She reaches up to tuck a strand behind her ear but seems to remember that she isn’t supposed to touch it before her hand makes contact.

He watches the rabbit-quickness of her breasts as they heave up and down and he has to tear his gaze away.

She’s dressed in a Tully-blue gown with capped sleeves and a bodice so low he can just make out the swell of her cleavage.

She’s absolutely stunning, Jon thinks, and in a fit of madness, he leans close to her so he can tell her so.

“You look very beautiful tonight,” he says quietly and he watches in glee as her cheeks flood pink.

“And you as well, Your Grace,” she says with false primness and Jon wants to taste her lips again.

The thought is sobering in its guilt and his gaze lingers just once before he sits back in his chair.

Jon doesn’t taste the courses as they are served but he inhales them with gusto, watching from the corner of his eye as Sansa cuts her lemoncake into manageable pieces.

He observes her with a chuckle as she tucks three into a napkin and sweeps the whole bundle into a small pocket in her skirts.

She glances at him at the sound and her eyes narrow.

“I haven’t had any so good since I rode south, Your Grace,” Sansa says, her voice low and sweet.

Jon’s cock hardens at her cadence and he thinks, not for the first time, that he’s in very grave danger.

Jon wants to answer her with something equally lewd but he’s distracted by the sound of a commotion coming from the Great Hall’s entrance.

He left Blackfyre in his rooms but he still has End strapped to his hip.

Robb has pushed his plate away and he too looks ready to stand but Sansa’s small hand comes down against Jon’s wrist in supplication.

“Wait just a moment, for me, please,” Sansa whispers and Jon’s body almost collapses under the weight of the plea.

“I’ve--before we left King’s Landing, I sent a raven. I meant for it to be a surprise for you,” Sansa says softly and Jon wants to tip her chin upwards but the disturbance resolves itself and a man emerges from the crush of noble bodies.

He is a small man, thin almost in the extreme, but there is a whipcord sharpness to his frame that belies the strength within.

His hair is feather-grey and his eyes are the clearest green Jon has ever seen.

His breeches are made of lambskin and his jerkin of bronze scales. He looks a bit as though he has emerged from a swamp.

“A crannogman,” Jon says in shock and he glances to his right to see that Robb and Lady Stark look equally confused.

It’s Sansa to whom he approaches, bowing sharply at the waist.

He doesn’t spare Jon a look and Sansa leans forward so that her breasts are pressed against the edge of the table.

Her small hand is outstretched and the crannogman shakes it once in his gnarled one.

The hall is absolutely silent.

“This is Lord Reed of the crannogmen in the Neck and a great friend to my father,” Sansa calls out gaily. 

“Sup and be merry,” she says dismissively and the conversations begin anew, though slow to rise in volume.

“Lord Howland fought with father at the Tower of Joy,” Sansa says softly, her gaze directed at Jon’s profile. 

“He is the last man living to see your mother before she died.”

Jon’s fork clatters to his plate and he remembers Ser Arthur’s stories about the Red Mountains.

This man had arrived after Ser Arthur had started on his way to Horn Hill. He and Lord Stark slew Hightower and Whent and this man, this Reed, must have seen Lyanna.

Sansa’s hand comes to rest against his wrist again and her eyes are concerned.

“He hasn’t left the Neck since the Rebellion,” Sansa says inclining her head to Lord Reed in apology.

“I’m sorry to speak over you, Lord Reed. His Grace didn’t know you had come to see him.”

Lord Reed makes an appraising sound and Jon rises of a sudden.

“Sansa,” he says, familiar in the extreme, “is it--would it be alright--”

She laughs then, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

“Yes, Your Grace. My mother and brother have provided the nobles with so much wine that they’ll never think to question your absence.”

Jon is struck with the same desire to kiss her again, until her lips are swollen and red against her soft skin, but he rounds her chair instead and tugs lightly on the end of her hair in inadequate thanks.

Lord Reed follows behind him soundlessly, like a sort of snake in the grass.

The crannogmen are said to fight dirty and their houses float away on crannogs, forever disappearing.

Even Greywater Watch drifts and the castle has never been taken.

They leave through the outer doors of the Great Hall and spill into the night.

It’s not so cold as Winter but it is a great degree cooler than it has ever been in the South.

Jon finds the chill bracing and whirls to face the crannogman as soon as they exit.

The only structure close is the small sept built for Lady Catelyn and without a word between the two, they begin to walk in that direction.

“I wasn’t meant to be King,” Jon says slowly, surprising even himself with his bluntness. 

“It was for my brother. For Aegon. Truly, my birthright was to die with my mother in the Tower of Joy.”

They arrive at the Sept and Reed waits patiently for Jon to enter first.

The miniscule sept has crystal windows and Jon imagines that they cast rainbows onto the altars when the sun is high in the sky.

There are candles flickering in front of Maiden, Mother, and Crone and Reed faces him impassively as Jon attempts to pace in the seven-walled enclosure.

“I don’t know what to ask you. I never thought I would get the chance. I don’t have anyone left, you see. Nobody wanted to speak of her and now they’re all dead. Or elsewhere.”

Reed is silent a moment and Jon himself is very comfortable with solitude but right now there’s something about it that he can barely stand.

“I slew Hightower in Dorne with your Uncle,” he begins, and his voice is deep and resonant, a rich bass that seems strange emanating from such a compact body.

“It was very hot and your Uncle and I and his bannermen had fought bandits and Dornishmen loyal to your father along the way.”

Jon nearly crumples onto a bench, now staring up into Reed’s face.

The man does not blink as he looks down at Jon and Jon gets the sense that Kings matter to him every little.

“We didn’t expect we would find Lyanna Stark alive.”

Jon’s breath catches.

“Your mother was betrothed to Baratheon and she ran off with Prince Rhaegar instead. We thought it rape at the time. Your grandfather, the Mad King, thought the Starks were treasonous for believing so.”

“So he burnt them.” Jon remembers.

“So he burnt them.” Reed replies.

“But she was alive. Prince Rhaegar left her his best men. His strongest. Before I knew of you, I wondered why he wouldn’t leave Dayne to protect her.”

Jon’s body flushes.

“Your uncle went up first and I played sentry. He left covered in blood. I knew Ned all my life,” Reed says, inflection creeping into his voice at last, “and never did I see him so broken. He was Lyanna’s favorite. She was everyone’s favorite. He couldn’t bear to watch her die.”

Jon’s face is wet but he swipes at his cheeks regardless, feeling very much like the babe ripped from his mother’s breast.

“I knew Lyanna from the time she was born. A stubborn thing. Headstrong. Beautiful, too.” Reed says this last matter-of-factly, as though he’s had all the time in the world to sit with unpleasant truths.

Jon grips one fist in his hand.

“I went in to say goodbye. I will spare you how she looked at her last, boy,” Reed says, a measure of warmth creeping into his tone, “and I asked her about the babe.”

“Howly, she said, she called me Howly from the time she could lisp, and she was so very pale,” Reed says, “‘Howly, I’ve sent my babe away. I loved him so much and I’ve sent him away. I didn’t know if Ned would come in time and I didn’t want him to die with me. Should I have waited? Am I a terrible mother? Should I have kept my babe with me?”

Jon’s sobs wrack his entire body now but he manages to keep them mostly soundless in the wake of Reed’s tale.

Reed’s hand descends upon his shoulder, broad and heavy.

“I have never forgotten it. She said to me, Howly, he looks just like Ned. You have to tell him. He won’t hear it from me and I’m going to die. Don’t say anything. I can feel it. You have to tell him that I named him Jon.”

Reed sighs heavily and Jon’s tears don’t wind down so much as they become silent.

“She couldn’t say anymore after that. I sent your uncle back in and he returned not five minutes after. We sent her body to Winterfell to be buried in your family crypts.”

Jon wipes his hands over his eyes.

“Lord Reed,” he begins haltingly, “why did she name me Jon? It isn’t a Stark family name--not that I know of.”

Howland smiles down upon him and the motion lights up his face, rendering the man unmistakably handsome.

“Your uncle meant to name all of his sons after the important men in his life. Robb, Bran, Rickon. You’re named for Jon Arryn. He was the only father Ned had left after Aerys burnt their own. Lyanna did it for Ned.”

Jon bows his head. He has no more questions. It’s more than he thought he would ever receive.

“He could hardly look at me sometimes,” Jon murmurs, and Howland Reed laughs, though it sounds more like a whisper of wind.

“Aye. It’s never easy to look in the face of loss.”

*

Sansa finds him in the godswood.

He hears someone approach but he’s too busy tracing the face carved into the weirwood tree, his fingers calloused and dull from swordplay.

“Jon?” she says, and Jon whirls around to face her voice.

Her red hair spills from beneath her the white hood of her cloak and she has on house slippers; they peek from beneath the folds of her dressing gown.

“You should be sleeping,” Jon says, crossing over to her to look down at the crown of her head.

“I couldn’t sleep. I told Robb and Mother what I had done and they said--they said you might need time but I didn’t want you to think that I didn’t care. That you were alone.”

Her eyes are red-rimmed and he can see that she’s been restless. Worried for him.

That strange feeling swoops into his stomach again and he realizes what it is just as he stares down into her eyes, fringed by heavy auburn lashes.

Jon leans down to kiss her with no preamble and for the first time it feels _right._ He deliberately ignores anything before or after her.

There’s only this moment, stretched like candle wax between the two of them.

He bites at her lower lip until it drops open under his and presses his tongue to the roof of her mouth.

Sansa’s hands scrabble for purchase against his shirt, her fingers catching on the dragonhead pin he had such trouble with earlier in the day.

One of his arms swings down to her waist and he pulls her so close that a shadow couldn’t pass in the space between.

He can feel the swell of her breasts again and he thinks about how much he wants to rip her free of her clothes and lay her naked against his furs.

He wants. He wants so violently that it frightens him. Never before her has he allowed himself to desire anything at all.

Jon pulls back abruptly and her face is blotchy with color and he laughs wetly at the sight.

“What--what,” she breathes, struggling to catch her breath from within the brace of his arms.

“Don’t laugh at me. I’ve come to see you because I was-I was nervous--”

“Marry me.”

Sansa’s hands spasm from where they are clutched in linen.

“What?”

“Marry me. Please,” Jon says desperately, pressing a kiss to her forehead, the apples of her cheeks, her chin.

“Marry me before the Old Gods and the New.” Jon pauses to tuck an escaped ringlet behind her ear as she so often does.

“Tonight.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cackling* damn, it took us thirty years to get here. 
> 
> also, if you'd like to float some prompts into my tumblr inbox that would be great. i'll need some inspiration after this beast is dead.
> 
> comments are like a much-needed blood transfusion


	15. Chapter 15

Sansa

 302 AC

It’s cold.

It seems strange to notice the chill at the height of summer but Sansa notices it regardless. The chill wraps itself underneath her layers and down her legs, passing over nipples and the pale hairs of her thighs.

“Marry me. Tonight.”

“Jon,” Sansa says, “you don’t mean that. You’re grateful for--for being able to speak to Lord Reed. And I’m happy that you’ve had the chance--”

“I love you.”

Sansa’s brows rise to her hairline and she finds herself swaying in place. The wind whips red around her shoulders and Jon steps into her space, wrapping one palm around her upper arm for steadiness.

He runs a hand through his hair and it comes into contact with his crown, connecting with a dull thump.

“I need you to understand. You don’t have to take me for your husband and you don’t have to accept my words. But you deserve an explanation.”

Sansa thinks of the letters tucked underneath her smallclothes, still packed at the bottom of a traveling trunk.

She nods shortly and Jon releases her, stepping backwards so that his shoulder almost brushes against the edge of the weirwood, fabric to carved eyes.

“I think that I wanted you when you and your father first arrived in King’s Landing. I was never able to stop thinking of you after I took your arm.”

Jon scrubs a hand across his face. He looks older in the moonlight, curls escaping from his top-knot.

“But you were Aegon’s.” Jon’s voice hardens and he stands with fists to his side.

“You were promised to my brother and I never intended to have done anything. I have to live with what’s happened to him and what’s become of me but I want you to know that.”

Sansa shakes her head. “I know that. Jon, I know that. I’m not--I’m not innocent either. I shouldn’t have asked you to send me ravens or anything of the sort.”

Jon’s shaking his head now and he settles a calloused palm against the nape of her neck.

“Seven hells, Sansa. You’ve never lain with a man, hadn’t kissed one until me. You couldn’t know to stop something that neither of us knew was happening. I should’ve stopped it when I did know.”

Sansa’s face warms at the closeness of Jon’s touch and she bites down on her lower lip in agitation.

“Don’t do that. Don’t act as if I wasn’t party to everything, or worse, that I somehow couldn’t know what was happening because I was too young, too untried, too innocent--”

Jon presses his lips to her forehead, blistering heat against the warmth of her forehead.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, sweetling. I didn’t mean to say that you couldn’t decide. I meant that I’m guilty of forcing your hand.”

Sansa smiles despite her momentary anger. “It was the both of us. I didn’t know what I was feeling but it was more than I ever could have felt for your brother. It’s wretched to say that aloud.”

“I love you because you’re brave,” Jon says, and when Sansa opens her mouth to protest he busses another kiss to the crown of her hair.

“My father once told me that brave men fight despite their fear. You survived the Red Keep alone and decided to wed Egg even after everything had come to pass. You took care of my sister,” Jon says, “and even I know what a selfless act that can come to be.”

Sansa laughs despite herself. Rhaenys is headstrong in a way she’s never seen another woman be. Sansa doesn’t know that she could be as impulsive but she understands the desire to control her own destiny, to exercise agency. 

She intimately knows what drove Rhaenys to allow Ser Arthur to bed her and the innate fear for her babe that followed.

Ser Arthur is in exile now and may well die before the small council and King agree to absolve him of his crimes. The babe will grow up fatherless, with its father’s last name.

“For you to write to Lord Reed when I brought you home to honor your father in some small, inadequate way, for you to do something like that for me when you’ve already lost so much--”

Jon’s voice catches strangely and his cheek comes to rest fully against the crown of her head, tears soaking into Sansa’s hair.

Sansa flings her arms around him in the same heedless way she used to do for Arya and Bran when they skinned their knees as a result of their own foolishness.

“You’re a fool, Jon,” Sansa whispers. “Why shouldn’t you get to know your mother? You’ve no one now, no parent at all, and it was something I could give you that no one else could.”

Jon’s arms tighten so much that Sansa finds her air almost restricted. He loosens his grip almost immediately and moves away just enough to rub his thumbs against her wet cheeks.

“I love you,” Jon repeats, “and I’ll spend the rest of my life giving back everything that has been stolen from you, if you’ll have me.”

“I’ll have you, you foolish man. As though there was ever anyone else.”

Jon’s hands drop only to land on her waist and he swings her into the air, twirling in a short circle before he allows her to settle on her feet.

“I’ve made you dizzy, love,” Jon says with a laugh, and Sansa flushes pink at the endearment.

“Do you like that?” Jon asks, and Sansa watches as a few heart-tree leaves come fluttering to the earth around them, a deep blush color.

“Jon,” Sansa tries but Jon smiles in a way she hasn’t seen since he dueled with his brother in the Dragonpit so long ago.

“What, sweetling?”

“Stop it or you won’t have any wife at all,” Sansa teases and Jon’s arms spasm almost as though he has no control over the action.

“I like it,” Sansa admits, soft from where they are ensconced around one another. “I’ve waited to hear it again.”

“I know that there are no septons here and you deserved to be married in the Holy Sept, a crown of winter roses upon your head. We can wait, if you want. I can speak with your brother tomorrow morn.”

Sansa tilts her chin up to meet Jon’s grey eyes. 

“I don’t want to wait any longer. All we’ve done is wait and nothing good came of it. My father--my father would come to release me into your care but he isn’t here. We can wed here, in the godswood, before the heart tree. In front of the Old Gods.”

Jon nods, stepping backwards.

“Alright. What must be done?”

Sansa tugs her cloak open so that her nightrail is visible underneath. It is mostly opaque, a sheer thing she made before her journey south in the hopes that her Targaryen prince would enjoy it. 

She shrugs the heavy white fabric off of her shoulders so that it flutters to the godswood floor and hugs her feet. Sansa shivers with the advent of the cool night air, her nipples sharpening into peaks that press against soft silk and linen.

Jon’s eyes darken and Sansa’s breath catches in her throat. Men have always looked upon her with lust but never has she seen it in the eyes of a man she wanted as well.

Sansa grows warm at the apex of her thighs and Jon pulls his crown from his head, setting it down by his own feet.

“And then?” Jon says, his voice deeper than a moment before.

“The bride is to wear white or ivory,” Sansa whispers, loathe to break the spell. 

“And so you are. You look beautiful.”

Sansa resists the urge to cross her arms over the swell of her breasts, uncommonly hot and swollen with Jon’s attentions.

“State your name,” Sansa commands and Jon does so immediately.

“I am called Jon, of House Targaryen.”

“I am called Sansa, of House Stark,” Sansa follows and she can see Jon’s hands quiver by his sides.

“We’re to kneel, with heads bowed, for a moment of communion with the gods of the forest. Then you’re to cover me with your cloak.”

Jon nods in understanding and then envelopes her hands with his broad ones, guiding her to meet next to the black pool that ripples in front of the weirwood.

They jar the stillness of the water with their movements and Sansa feels the soft grass beneath her flesh as she ducks her head and closes her eyes.

Jon does the same, thumbs rubbing soft circles into the meat of her palm.

Her heart is beating violently in her chest, a dove trapped in a cage. Jon squeezes once and they look up as one, both flushed a strange sort of red.

Jon helps her to rise and then he releases her hands to unclasp his own cloak, a deep black with red lining the neck and hem.

It’s incredibly heavy and Jon drags the fabric over both of Sansa’s shoulders, bearing its weight in his hands before he allows it to settle down against her.

“And then?” Jon teases, fiddling with the clasp, a small, red dragon-head pin.

“You’re to carry me to the wedding feast,” Sansa says cheekily, opening her arms for his own.

Jon laughs into the night and the sound echoes pleasantly from between the trees.

“Aye, my Queen,” he says, sweeping her up once more, her legs dangling over his forearms.

“Your Queen?” Sansa says softly, swinging her arms to rest around Jon’s neck.

Jon begins to walk toward the Armory so they might cross the bridge that links back to the Great Keep.

“You’re my Queen now,” Jon says quietly, grass crunching underneath his soles. 

“I meant to bring you to your home but I’ve taken that from you again.” He says the last placidly but Sansa can feel the pain beneath the sentiment.

“Mother left Riverrun to come and be Lady of Winterfell. Lyanna would’ve been Queen of the Seven Kingdoms had she lived. You’re to be my home now,” Sansa says patiently, and Jon hitches her higher in his arms.

“Then allow me to sample my feast,” Jon says, and Sansa buries her head entirely in his shoulder.

*

The Keep is as silent as the crypts as they traverse through it and Sansa whispers directions in Jon’s ear, a left here, a right there.

Jon’s squire sleeps in a pallet at the foot of the great bed and he stumbles awake at the sound of the outer door opening.

“Your Grace,” the boy mumbles, scrubbing a fist over closed eyes.

Sansa presses her cheek into the underside of Jon’s chin, his stubble a mild irritant.

“Pyle,” Jon says, and the boy straightens and opens his eyes, his hands adjusting his livery on instinct.

Pyle’s brows shoot to his hairline when he sees the King carrying Sansa and he stumbles backward, hitting his spine against one of the four pillars of the bed.

“I’ll be outside your chambers, Your Grace,” Pyle says, his quick eyes darting everywhere but the King’s arms.

“See that no one enters nor so much as knocks on my doors,” Jon says sharply and Sansa’s entire body quakes in anticipation at the authority in his voice.

Pyle’s ears flush and he nods jerkily before sweeping his pallet into his arms and fairly running from the room.

Jon waits until he hears the heavy door close behind Pyle’s retreat and the bar come down to lock it before he looks down at Sansa.

His eyes widen infinitesimally and he crosses over to the bed to lay Sansa down against it.

Her body sinks into grey and white and for a moment she relaxes. She buries her face in one of the pillows and the scent of home envelopes her just before she realizes.

“We can’t do anything here,” Sansa says in a rush and Jon cocks his head and shakes it like a dog fixated on a treat.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t like, Sansa,” he begins but Sansa shakes her head.

“My mother and father--this room,” she tries again and Jon’s brows rise with a quick nod.

“Aye. We can move to your rooms if you’d prefer.”

Sansa doesn’t want to move. She’s not sure what comes next but she knows that she wants it sooner than later.

“If we, if we were to move all the quilts and blankets to the floor,” Sansa says, sitting up and moving to the edge of the bed. 

She drops to the floor noiselessly and begins sweeping the bedding up in her arms. There is so much of it, far more than her parents had ever used before. She knows that these were created especially for the King’s use but they swamp her nonetheless.

Jon laughs from behind her, muffled behind her mountain of fabric.

“Here, let me, you’ll fall,” he says, taking the bundle and dropping them to the ground before the fireplace. There is a small one going behind the grate, most likely tended to by Pyle before they rudely woke him.

Jon kicks his boots off and away and drops to his knees, spreading the four corners wide and layering a few blankets before settling the massive quilt atop.

Sansa watches as his hair comes slightly undone in his efforts and she’s filled with that warmth she now has a name for.

“Come and test it out,” Jon says without looking, still smoothing out the wrinkles.

“I can send for more blankets if you’d like. Or I can fetch them myself if you give me directions,” Jon adds, almost to himself.

Sansa is beginning to feel warm in Jon’s cloak and so she unhooks it, swinging it to silently land against the stripped bed.

“I’ll send Pyle for heated bricks,” Jon continues, heedless of her silence. “The floor might grow chilled during the night.”

Sansa’s hands are shaking as she rucks her nightrail up to mid-thigh and sweeps it over her head in a silent flourish she’s desperately proud of.

She’s bare and smooth-skinned behind Jon’s back, her mound a vibrant red in the firelight. She allows her hair to spill over top her breasts, an easy curtain to hide behind.

“The underground hot-springs keep the castle warm, even through winter,” Sansa says softly and Jon turns on his knees at the sound of her voice.

“I didn’t know--” his voice catches when he looks upon her and Sansa is sure that her face is quite as crimson as her hair but she’s gone and taken off all her clothes and it’s too late to turn back now.

“By the Seven,” Jon hisses, his hands coming to slap heavily against splayed thighs.

He looks very handsome backlit by the firelight, unruly curls coming to settle against his forehead.

“Are you going to look--look at me all night?”

Jon doesn’t move for a second, his eyes tracking her from head to toe.

She dares a cursory perusal of her own and finds him straining beneath his breeches, his palms twitching almost involuntarily.

“If you’ll have me, I’ll look at you for the rest of my life,” Jon says absently and Sansa gives him a strangled sort of laugh.

“I would think you’d like to do more than look,” Sansa tries bravely, remembering that all the ladies at court told her that men liked a bit of confidence in bed.

Jon rises gracefully, as though planning to enter battle, and fusses with the lacing of his breeches.

“Sansa. I’ll do whatever you allow of me,” he says, coming so close that her breasts push up against the hard planes of his chest.

Jon groans at the feeling and his hands come up to sweep her hair behind her back.

“Your hair is lovely,” he murmurs, his eyes focused on Sansa’s rapidly hardening nipples.

He sweeps two thumbs against peach-colored tips and digs in slightly with the point of his thumbnail.

Sansa mewls at the sensation, her thighs shivering restlessly.

“What are you doing?” Sansa asks, her hands flying up to grip at his raised forearms.

“I’m touching my bride,” Jon says and he smiles broadly before dipping his head to suckle one nip into his mouth.

The sound Sansa makes then is much too loud for propriety and her body buckles under the sensation.

Jon seems to anticipate this because he moves his left hand from round her breast and settles it into the lower curve of her back so as to better bear her weight.

His long fingers dip into the beginning crease of her ass and Sansa squeezes her eyes shut.

“Is your cunt wet, sweet girl?” Jon murmurs, coming up for air.

“I--I don’t--”

Jon’s free hand sweeps down between her legs, softly nudging them aside with two fingers.

He brushes her opening gently and her knees collapse entirely at the flash of sensitivity. She’s not touched herself there before, quickly washing and rinsing at bath time.

Septa Mordane told her that it was meant for her husband to pleasure and she can see why.

She is wet, she finds, the fluid stringy and stuck to russet curls, darkening them before her eyes.

“Gods, Sansa,” Jon says, his voice sounding strangled.

“Is that what you wanted to see?” Sansa says cheekily, her smile broad.

Jon ducks down and laughs against her neck before sweeping her into his arms again and crossing to their makeshift bed in two long steps.

“Yes, I want to see your cunny drip for me all night and in the morning too, if you can manage it,” Jon says, settling her down against the furs with a rumble.

“Ah,” Sansa cries, a strange fluttering beginning with his words.

“Do you like to hear the things I’m going to do to you?” Jon asks, shucking his breeches down hard thighs and ripping his shirt in his effort to take it off.

He is bare before her, his arms bracketed at her head, those curls she loves so much almost a canopy.

“I do,” she breathes, “I want you to do everything. Take your hair down,” Sansa commands and Jon complies so quickly it’s as though she said nothing at all.

“I’m going to give you my cock,” Jon says, his hand coming to massage her breast again. “I’m going to have you every which way I want. Like this,” Jon says and her eyes finally dart down to where he’s hard before her.

It looks imposing though she has no frame of reference otherwise but she reaches up a hand to touch the flushed head.

It’s a dull red like a mushroom cap but it’s so silky when she touches it that she makes a sound of interest.

Jon’s hips jerk forward at the contact and he makes the loudest groan of the night. He’s wet at the tip and Sansa massages it as he had done to her breasts.

Jon is making aborted thrusts and his eyes are locked onto where her hand can’t connect around the girth of him.

“Stop, love, or I’ll not get the chance to fuck you,” he grits out and Sansa laughs at his helplessness.

“I quite like you like this,” she says, spreading her legs around his own in a fit of bravery.

She can feel the cool air against where she’s so damp and Jon jerks away from her grasp and hooks his hands underneath her thighs to press them to her chest.

Sansa is open so abruptly that she has to staunch the urge to cover herself.

“You can’t know how I’ve longed to have you naked like this, in my bed,” Jon says and he presses a finger into her cunt before she has the chance to reply.

It makes a thick sound that makes Sansa turn red in delighted shame and Jon pumps that one finger languidly, his eyes a bit unfocused.

“Gods, you’re so tight down here. You’ve never had anything at all in your cunt, have you, sweet girl?”

Sansa shakes her head vigorously, her hips gently humping down against the pressure.

“That’s right,” Jon growls, drawing his finger out to carefully press two in. It’s a bit of a stretch at first, and Sansa fears the pain she was told would occur, but she’s so very wet that Jon’s fingers glide through.

“You’re so damned pink down here,” Jon says, his thrusts becoming harder as he looks.

He drops down to one forearm suddenly, using his freed hand to flick at her nipple.

The dual sensations are almost too much and Sansa can feel how quickly she’s humping against Jon’s fingers in her desperation.

“Oh, please, Jon, please,” she begs, quite uncertain as to what, exactly, she’s begging for. 

“Please what, my love?” Jon pinches her nipple almost cruelly and Sansa lifts her head so she can see where it has become swollen and pink.

“Suckle on it, please,” Sansa says, her ears red with embarrassment.

“As my Queen commands,” Jon says teasingly, his tongue coming out to flick at the sensitive nub.

His hands haven’t stopped moving from between the apex of her thights and she shoves them open farther, feeling desperately wanton and surprisingly empty.

Sansa can hear herself mewling loudly against all the stimulation and Jon is moving rhythmically between her legs, rutting into the blankets below them.

Jon releases her with spit-shined lips and removes his fingers at the same time.

“Come back!” Sansa says petulantly and Jon laughs, delighted.

“I want to see if you taste as sweet as you sound,” Jon says and Sansa has only a moment to wonder what he means before he’s dragging calloused hands down the milk-white of her inner thighs and fixing his mouth and beard against her button.

It’s so sensitive, Sansa realizes, as she lifts her entire lower half so that she might climb directly atop Jon’s tongue.

He pulls away with a laugh, biting sharply at her inner thigh, only to soothe the sting with a kiss.

“Greedy little girl, aren’t you?”

Sansa nods stupidly against the pillows.

“I am, I am,” she says mindlessly and Jon laughs again. 

“I like that,” he murmurs. “Greedy for my mouth, my cock.”

He dives down again and Sansa shivers, his tongue painting careful patterns. She sways her hips from side to side, unable to remain motionless and Jon raises a hand to rest as a bar against her hipbones.

He removes his tongue to suckle sharply as he did to her nips earlier and Sansa peaks with such intensity she barely knows what happened until it has finished.

The warmth begins from her cunt and then explodes with every hot suck of Jon’s mouth, descending like twinkling stars against her skin.

She shouts shamelessly, soft grunts that reach a fever pitch as Jon makes an answering groan, muffled from within the lips of her cunt.

She raises her head to look down at him, his beard hidden by her curls and she humps down once more, chasing the feeling.

Jon slips two fingers into her unexpectedly, raising his mouth just enough to trace her button again.

“Ah, ah, I can’t, Jon,” Sansa gasps, her hair stuck to her forehead with sweat.

“Once more, love,” Jon says, his voice little more than a rasp in his throat.

“Then you’ll fuck me?” Sansa asks, proud of the way her voice doesn’t waver.

Jon grunts dully, his fingers still working, in and out, in and out.

“Aye. Gods. I’ll fuck you so, that I’ll need to carry you everywhere tomorrow.”

Sansa squirms on his fingers, that tight, warm feeling building again.

“I want that. I want to know what your cock feels like inside me,” Sansa says boldly. “Put your mouth on me again.”

Jon looks up, his beard almost drenched in her fluids.

“It’s as I said. Greedy,” Jon says and he uses two fingers to spread her open so he can press a close-mouthed kiss to her button.

Sansa’s legs spasm wildly at the intimacy of it and he darts out with his tongue once more in that dance she loves.

She knew that men did...this, but she wasn’t certain that she should come to expect it of the King himself.

Jon seems to be enjoying himself immensely, Sansa notes, and then her ability to think fades as Jon removes his fingers only to replace them with the tip of his tongue.

She squeals like the stuck pig she once played with in Winter Town and Jon hums around her cunt, darting his tongue in and out, alternating deep and shallow thrusts.

He rises just enough to say, “hump down against my mouth, sweetling. That’s it. My beautiful little whore.”

Sansa’s hands come up to tug at her nips at the word.

_Whore._

She isn’t...but for Jon? She thinks of how desperate and slattern she must look and decides that she likes the idea. He can have her however he likes.

He continues his assault, twisting his tongue and allowing the edge of his thumb to rub restless circles into the tip of her button.

The warmth spirals again until Sansa’s hips are entirely lifted from the bedding and Jon has a hand supporting the arch of her back.

Her entire body trembles and she barely notices Jon lowering her once more, sparks flickering behind her eyelids. She can feel the warm gush between her legs, sticky in her mound, and she wishes she could open herself up more.

She watches Jon climb her body through slitted eyes and then his hand strokes across his cock once before he presses it gently to her hole.

Sansa pulls her knees to her chest as Jon had done before and he very nearly growls as he eases his way inside.

It’s a heavy pressure, unlike anything Sansa has ever experienced. It feels like being stuffed full and she tells him so.

“ _Seven,_ ” Jon says, pressing inside until his groin meets hers, his heavy stones swinging between the two of them.

“Say it again.”

Sansa flings her arms carelessly above her head and tries to lift her hips into the press of his cock as she did before on Jon’s tongue.

“Say what,” Sansa murmurs, “that you’ve stuffed me full?”

Jon snaps his hips forward and Sansa’s body tightens.

“Ah, gods,” she hisses and Jon laughs tightly.

“Aye. You thought to tease me, looking the way you do, naked and twice peaked by my hand,” Jon says, his hips thrusting wildly with the words.

Sansa can feel herself shoved up the quilts and her hands tighten into fists around her head.

“Come, love,” Jon says sweetly, “will you let me hold your hands while you let me fuck your tight cunny?”

Sansa gasps and Jon’s mouth descends, this time atop her own.

He tastes warm and faintly salty and Sansa groans when she realizes that she’s tasting her own peak.

Jon sweeps his tongue inside of her mouth and Sansa sucks on it like a babe, swirling her hips in uncoordinated circles where Jon is fucking at a brutal pace.

He bites down on her lower lip before moving away, pulling out with a quickness that almost makes Sansa cry.

“I want it back!” Sansa says wantonly, and Jon looks down on her with what she realizes has been love, all this time.

“Aye, and you’ll have it,” Jon says, placing two hands on her hips and flipping her soundly so that her breasts are pressed into their bedding.

He tugs at her waist until her back is arched in the air, her ass upturned and spread for his perusal.

Jon seems to pause in order to take his fill and Sansa thought that all her shame had been fucked clean but it seems she still has more to spare.

There’s a slick sound coming from behind her that Sansa realizes means that Jon is stroking his cock to the sight of her sprawled out like this.

“You’re so damned pink,” Jon hisses. “Your little cunt is swollen from your first cock,” Jon says, and his thumb swipes against her other hole, dipping in briefly before he tugs her backward to feel the press of his cock against her opening.

He shoves inside without warning and Sansa doesn’t bother swallowing her scream.

“I want all your holes, eventually,” Jon promises, ducking down over her spine to whisper directly into her ear.

How they must look, Sansa thinks wildly, the King of the Seven Kingdoms rutting over top her like a dog.

Jon’s hair tickles her cheek and he sprinkles the nape of her neck with kisses and bites, each of them unexpected.

“Oh--oh, please, Jon. Gods. Please, I love it, I love it,” Sansa breathes, gone dumb with the fucking.

Jon’s fingers dig bruises into her hipbones and she already colors so easily.

“I know you do, sweet girl,” Jon says, and Sansa begins to cry under the ministrations.

“Oh, Seven, I love you, too, Jon. Gods. I love you, too,” she says and Jon stills, grunting sharply before slowing into languid humps against her backside.

She knows that he’s just peaked and when Jon pulls away she can feel the release he’s left within her.

She thinks that some part of that should disgust her but she likes the wet way it feels, the way he’s marked her in a manner no other man will ever be allowed to.

Sansa sinks to the bed, stomach first, twisting her head to the side so she can better breathe.

Jon rises, crossing over to the wash basin on the opposite side of the sleeping chambers.

Sansa must fade into sleep because the next thing she knows, she’s being carefully lifted, her hair spilling down behind Jon’s forearm so he can clearly observe the mess he’s made of her neck and chest and breasts.

Jon is looking hungrily and when he meets Sansa’s eyes he blushes at being caught out.

“I like it,” Sansa says, exhausted, and Jon’s eyes darken.

“I’m glad,” he says roughly and sets her down in the center of the bed, amongst the remaining pillows.

Sansa allows her head to topple to the side, blinking languidly when a score of blankets fall against her naked body.

Jon does something around the room, probably ducking out to check on Pyle, and then he’s returning, pushing aside the coverings to pull her into his equally naked side.

His hand settles possessively on the low curve of her belly and Sansa arches her head back to she can rub into his neck.

His manhood is mostly soft between them and Sansa presses backward until she feels it slip in between her cheeks.

Jon’s fingers spasm wildly against her skin and he muffles a groan into her hair.

“You’ll be the death of me, Sansa Stark,” Jon says hotly, and Sansa flushes in the not-quite-darkness.

“Targaryen,” she whispers and there is a charged pause before Jon replies, “Sansa Targaryen.”

The name sends shivers down her spine. It was always to be her name but it somehow feels entirely new with a different brother attached to it.

Jon is quiet for a moment but she can almost hear him thinking behind her.

“It was Rhaenys who killed Aegon,” he confesses softly, and Sansa’s body stiffens in disbelief.

“Oh, no,” she breathes. “It couldn’t be. Rhaenys was--she was inconsolable. She loved him. She did, truly.”

Jon laughs against the back of her neck, wet sounding.

“Aye, she did. She loved the both of us. It was difficult, living in the shadow of two brothers meant to be King.”

Sansa shakes her head. “He was becoming cruel,” she admits, easy in the night. “I don’t think--he kept promising her that he would have Ser Arthur killed. Every day she went to see the King, to beg. To reason. Aegon would’ve stolen the boy a father.”

Jon is silent again.

“I don’t think she should’ve done it,” Sansa admits, her voice tired, “but I don’t know what I would do if it was your babe in my belly.”

Jon makes another sound, indefinable. It sounds very much like desire.

“He was our brother,” Jon says dully. “I miss him every day. He was my closest friend. Even in death, I’ve betrayed him.”

Sansa squirms out of his grip to roll and face Jon, bringing two hands up to push his hair from his eyes.

“Don’t turn what we’ve made into something ugly,” Sansa says, her heart sinking. “I love you. You said that you loved me as well. Aegon wanted to keep me, as was his right.”

Jon nods from between her hands, his eyes bright.

“There never could’ve been anything between us at all because he saw me as his due. It’s nothing a man should die over, but neither of us did the killing and we couldn’t do the saving, either.”

Jon looks as though he wants to argue further but something in her face must stop him.

“I’ll have to atone for it somehow, regardless,” Jon says, his words slurring with exhaustion between their faces.

Sansa kisses his forehead and he sweeps an arm behind Sansa’s back to pull her into his chest.

*

Sansa wakes alone.

For a moment, she forgets what transpired the night before and then she moves and her body protests even that small effort.

Sansa sweeps the blankets aside to catalogue the tapestry of bruises and bites that litter her body.

She’s pressing a curious finger over one and marveling at the warmth it inspires in her belly when she hears the outer door open.

Sansa jerks the blankets to her chin but it’s not Jon who steps through, it’s her mother.

Sansa flushes under her mother’s gaze and she hears her mother issue some sort of command as the door closes behind her.

Catelyn Stark’s face is impenetrable as she crosses the room and comes to sit on the edge of the large bed.

“Mother,” Sansa begins but Mother holds up a hand.

“Are you happy, child?”

Sansa smiles, a private little thing.

“Aye. We wed before the Old Gods last night.”

Mother reaches for her hand and Sansa frees it from the prison of bedding.

“So he told Robb, first thing this morn. I had him step out so that I could speak with you.”

Sansa laughs aloud. Her little mother told the King of the Seven Kingdoms to make himself scarce so she could have a conversation with her daughter.

Mother’s face twitches with barely suppressed mirth. “I’ll do as I please in my own home.”

Sansa inclines her head and covers her mouth with the back of her other hand.

“I think he’s a good man. I only saw King Aegon when he was very small.” Mother pauses. “All I’ve ever wanted is your happiness. Your father, too.”

Sansa’s eyes grow hot and heavy at the mention of father.

“Jon is my happiness, Mother,” Sansa says and her mother squeezes her fingers just once before releasing her grip entirely.

“And now my darling babe is Queen.”

Sansa squints in personal disbelief but then she realizes that there’s really nothing in the statement to fault. 

Mother is already rising by the time Sansa understands that everything has changed, dusting off her dress.

“I’ll miss you very much,” Mother says, and she turns to the door before Sansa can think of what to say next.

*

They’ve been at Winterfell a fortnight when the raven comes.

Maester Luwin delivers it directly into the King’s hands as he sits with Sansa in her solar.

Sansa knows that Jon’s been stalling his return for her sake. She’s aware that she must leave with him once more, this time as his bride, and that means that they’ll need to have another wedding at the Holy Sept once they return to King’s Landing.

Sansa is sewing another set of clothes for Rhaenys’ babe as Jon thanks the Maester and comes to sit down next to Sansa once more.

He allows one hand to drop to her knee and Sansa mindlessly propels the rocking chair with one foot, the needles clicking tonelessly as she connects purple cloth.

Jon’s eyes are restless as he scans the missive and he looks up at her with a resigned sigh.

Sansa sets the work aside.

“Poor news?”

Jon shakes his head. 

“No, my love. My uncle has written to tell me that Rhaenys has gone south to Starfall to await the babe’s birth.”

Sansa nods. 

“It’ll be born during our return to King’s Landing, then.”

Jon hums to himself, squeezing lightly at her kneecap.

“I’m sorry to ask it of you so soon, Sansa, but it’s time to go. Rhaenys is no longer serving as my Regent and I won’t leave my Hand in charge of kingdom affairs.”

Sansa smiles up at Jon as he stands, catching hold of his wrist before he can begin his habitual pacing.

“Your home is my home, love. Come now and help me pack.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the plan is to post the final two chapters by the end of this week.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is a trigger warning for this chapter. It's not described in any detail but I would rather be safe than sorry. Scroll to the end notes if you'd like to be forewarned.

Rhaenys

302 AC

She wakes to muffled cries.

Rhaenys goes from slumber to awareness with a speed never before possessed, and she stumbles toward the cradle tucked next to the bed.

The babe is barely two weeks old today and Rhaenys rubs the sleep from her eyes as she looks down upon him.

Her free hand rests on the lower edge of her stomach, so recently swollen with child.

The babe’s face is red and he blinks up at her languidly when he finds his mother’s face.

Rhaenys can’t bear the looking.

She drags her thumb down the silk of his cheek and he quiets almost instantly at the touch.

“That’s my darling babe,” Rhaenys whispers, reaching down to carefully lift the swaddled bundle into her arms.

He sleeps on a mattress stuffed with feathers and blanketed in sheepskin, as is his birthright.

The babe seems flushed from the warmth of his bedding and Rhaenys resolves to have him slept on linen for the remainder of the summer, however long that should be.

The babe is almost silent and he rubs his little red face against Rhaenys’ neck in search of comfort.

“Shall I send for your wet-nurse?” 

Rhaenys knows the babe has no concept of time or language but she imagines him saying yes, imagines the two little teeth that will push out of his lower gums just as they did when Aegon and Jon were small.

Her grip tightens reflexively around his fragile body and the babe lets out a small mewl.

“Mother’s sorry, darling,” Rhaenys promises, and when she closes her eyes she finds that she can run her fingers through his hair without imagining the bright coloring of it.

She continues to soothe her babe in that manner as she crosses over to her door.

Starfall is almost continually silent during the wee hours of the morning, so different from the bustle of the Red Keep.

Rhaenys finds that she likes the absolute nothingness of the air. She thinks of Arthur growing up here before he was sent away to train for knighthood, playing by the sand at the edge of the Summer Sea, or riding to High Hermitage to spar with House Dayne’s landed knights.

Her babe whimpers as though in distress.

The little Lord of Starfall is most likely still abed, five and ten years old with hair in Arthur’s same shade of blonde.

His father died when Lord Edric was a boy of eight. He was the eldest Dayne, Lord Aron. Had Arthur not taken his oaths, Starfall would be his to manage until the boy reached his majority.

Arthur never wanted it, Rhaenys remembers. He was content fighting at father’s side.

The door opens with nary a sound and Rhaenys steps into her outer rooms, where the servants are bustling at the early hour, prodding at the flames in the grate and folding fresh linens for the babe’s use.

The wet-nurse rocks comfortably in a chair close to the small fire, her hands moving ceaselessly as she sews some small garment or other.

All inhabitants of the room look up when Rhaenys enters and they stand, dropping into three low curtsies.

“Your Grace?” The wet-nurse says, opening her arms in question.

The babe’s little fist is caught in Rhaenys’ hair and she carefully pries small fingers from black as she delivers the baby into his nurse’s arms.

“There’s a good boy,” Rhaenys coos at him and his fist clenches and unclenches before he settles contentedly against his nurse’s breast.

The woman’s name is Wylla, Rhaenys believes, the same as the Manderly girl Sansa was so fond of.

“I’ll put him back abed when I’ve finished, Your Grace.”

Rhaenys forces her face into an approximation of a smile.

“That’s good, thank you, Wylla.”

Rhaenys turns to leave but stalls, rounding about so she can press a kiss to his forehead.

“I love you so very much,” Rhaenys whispers into his skin.

His hair falls in soft curls against his cheek, thicker than even Jon’s hair when Rhaenys had first seen him as a babe.

She makes to touch it again but she finds that she can’t, not while staring at the familiar silver-haired shine of it.

Rhaenys tucks her arm into the pocket of her dressing gown instead.

“Yes, thank you,” Rhaenys repeats, and Wylla looks at her oddly before pushing her nursing tunic down one shoulder so that the babe can latch.

At this hour, Lady Ashara should still be abed as well, her rooms located closer to Lord Ned’s. Ashara had traveled all the way from Harvest Hall in the Stormlands to be present for the babe’s birth, and Seven bless her for it.

Rhaenys had farther to travel and ended up giving birth a week after she had first arrived in Starfall.

Ashara seems pleased to be home, however briefly, her face softened as she points out the landmarks of her youth.

She shyly offers stories of Arthur as a boy, gauging Rhaenys’ interest when she thinks Rhaenys isn’t paying attention.

“Arthur felled a man twice his age here, near the Torentine,” Ashara said, a few nights after Rhaenys had bled new life into the world.

Ashara kept a tight grip on Rhaenys’ arm as they traveled, knowing that Rhaenys would tire easily. Ashara has babes on her own, one of them a little girl who Jon had once been meant to marry.

If Jon stops making a fool of himself, Rhaenys knows he’ll have Sansa in his bed and by his side, and no other.

“Dawn chose him,” Ashara said quietly. “It always knows. It always picks well.” Her voice becomes pinched. 

Lady Allyria is the youngest of the four siblings and Rhaenys knows Ashara and Arthur were very close. It must have grieved her greatly to hear of his exile.

It certainly can’t endear her to any Targaryen king. This babe is half Targaryen, Rhaenys thinks, pulling her gown closed and tying the sash.

He’s a Dayne of Starfall. It’s the most she can give him in her disgrace.

Rhaenys goes back to her rooms and finds that the morning light is so high in the sky that it now spills through the wide windows of the tower.

She crosses over to her desk, redwood imported from the North. 

Rhaenys imagines that she can smell the wind and rain there, its complacent and hard people.

There are three scrolls atop its surface and she arranges them, Jon, Arthur, and the last. Her babe.

Rhaenys has given him his name and she can’t bring herself to say it, not even in her own mind.

There’s no doubt that the gods will always have their due, in the end. 

Rhaenys had watched herself bleed into muslin and linen and sheepskin and fur only to be presented with a baby she instantly loved with all her heart--and one who damned her with his very face.

Rhaenys looks up at the crow of the rooster and her hands shake as she passes two fingers over the scrolls, sealed with blood-red Targaryen wax, heated by fire.

She settles onto the edge of her bed and pulls her hair back from her face, severe. She braids quickly and ignores the mirror above the vanity.

In her closet, Rhaenys has a brown linen dress she used to wear when helping her brothers train the dogs at the Keep’s kennels and so she wears that now, sweeping her hands down the folds, the long sleeves obscuring her very fingers.

No one watches her leave.

They curtsy and bow and call her _Your Grace_ in tones more timid than the last and Rhaenys smiles at them kindly and doesn’t see anything at all.

Ashara took her to the guard tower of the western arm of Dorne last, uncertain if her body could handle the strain after childbirth.

“It’s a relic of the Kings of the Torentine. The Starfall council meets within, on occasion.” Ashara said, fondness evident in her voice. She was proud of her history. Her people. 

The tower is called Palestone Sword.

It is tucked right at the edge of the Summer Sea, situated on a cliff-hang of rocks that jut up from the water itself.

The Kings of the Torentine must have carved the stairs long ago, and Rhaenys climbs them now, worn smooth by boots and chain and the hands of little boys who grew up to love their Kings.

Rhaenys imagines Arthur here, as young as father, hiding out in between lessons and supper. Ashara said it had been their favorite pastime as children, she and her brother close in age.

It’s warm, this close to the sun and its reflection from the sea, and when Rhaenys reaches the cool stone of the tower’s interior, there are yet more stairs, these lovingly polished.

Palestone Sword holds a bit of the same coloring as Dawn, and Rhaenys thinks it fitting, even as she climbs.

When she reaches the top, she finds nothing but blessed silence.

She can hear the crash of water against the rocks and she can see Starfall itself, a much-reduced dot in the distance, sitting amongst the crimson sand of the Red Mountains.

“All the way up here, we were Kings of the Torentine again.” Ashara said.

Rhaenys had made them leave after that.

Rhaenys steps close to the window, which is just a wide opening swathed with House Dayne colors, ribbons floating outward in the sharp morning breeze.

The gust of wind blows Rhaenys’ thick braid backwards and she’s very careful as she climbs to the ledge, her fingers pale against the frame.

Her babe, Rhaenys thinks. An angel with a kingslayer for a mother. A kinslayer. The worst of her kind and twice damned.

Lady Ashara, a woman married into House Selmy who loved her brother with every breath in her body, only to wake every morn knowing that she will never see him again.

Rhaenys has never gotten what she wanted.

She steps closer, careful to avoid scuffing milkstone with her boots. The brown toes hang over the edge and Rhaenys looks down down down, white seafoam sending sprays of mist into the wind.

No, Rhaenys has never gotten what she wanted. 

She should have never tried.

-

Arthur

302 AC

Arthur finds out that the princess of House Targaryen has thrown herself from Palestone Sword by happenstance.

They are just arrived in Myr, here to fulfill their contract and fight for the Disputed Lands, when news from across the Narrow Sea reaches the city.

A conclave of magisters rules here, and there are three slaves for every freeborn. Arthur finds the practice shameful but he is not fighting for opinion, nor honor, nor glory.

He joined the Golden Company because battle is all he knows and he would like to be felled with a sword in his hand.

He’s told Strickland that when he dies, Dawn is to be sent back to Westeros for House Dayne. If it’s not returned and the Targaryen King hears of it, he will sail to Essos himself to retrieve it.

Arthur finds Dawn an extension of his person, but he knows Jon will find himself duty-bound to return Dawn to Starfall to await the next Sword of the Morning.

And so, Arthur polishes Dawn’s milkglass until he can see the cut of his jaw in her blade and settles down next to one of the fires in the center of the encampment.

They have erected their tents just outside the city gates and Strickland and Peake have gone inside the city walls to meet with the Conclave.

Strickland invited Arthur along, always pleased to show off his tourney horse, but Arthur had declined.

They have been riding since Pentos, and Arthur has had little time for news and rest, and so he is summarily shocked when a coin-crier appears amongst their ranks.

They are always slovenly little children, most often boys, but on occasion, Arthur has seen a girl or two, hair cut short and angular around soft features.

They are often freeborn but poor, as no collared slave in the Free Cities would be permitted out of city gates this late in the evening.

This one has threadbare shoes on but his shirt looks as though it was once fine, linen, tore at the neck.

His face and hands are surprisingly clean and he has a soft, clear voice that commands attention.

“M’lords,” he says thickly, in the Common Tongue, his mouth shaping strangely over vowels.

“Nary a one of us is a lord here, boy,” a man calls out, his own accent prominent. Some of them used to be lords, Arthur thinks to himself.

He sometimes thinks he would’ve rather King Aegon took his head.

Arthur knows that Aegon would have brought Jon and Rhaenys out on the dais to watch and he doesn’t think that he could wish such horror on anyone.

Aron’s body was still warm when they lowered him into the Dayne crypts, and Arthur knows his nephew Ned had seen it all.

Arthur’s life has become a waste. He thinks of his old friend Rhaegar in the silence of the night, caught up in memories of their boyhood as only old men can be.

“Would that you could see me now,” Arthur muses. Rhaegar would have understood his love for Rhaenys--had she been any but his daughter.

No, death by the sword is no good for him. Better that he be slain in a foreign war with a foreigner’s scimitar.

The coin-crier shouts to be heard above their curses with the tone of one long accustomed to such verbal abuse.

“We don’t give a fuck about your news, boy,” a different voice calls, this one with the harsh consonants of a northerner.

Arthur tries not to look so that he doesn’t recognize the features of his lost homeland.

He stands up, prepared to climb into his own tent, when the boy’s voice rises yet again.

“For three honors, I will tell you what has happened to the House of the King of Westeros!”

Arthur stops.

“We have no King but that which is Golden,” Lothston cries and Arthur follows his voice and steps close to him, a great hand falling on Lothston’s shoulder.

“Quiet,” Arthur says, his voice clear and unraised. “I want to hear.”

The men around him fall silent, their conversations more muted than before.

They show him greater respect than any newcomer, be it due to his sword or his name, Arthur doesn’t know which.

He keeps to himself and gives away the majority of his spoils. He has no interest in worldly wealth.

There’s been no news of Westeros because of the constant riding, and it would be easier to come by if they’d remained in Braavos, near the sea, as it’s the most well-informed of the Free Cities.

The boy clears his throat at the cessation of sound and begins to sing.

_To all, there was a princess fair_

_With hair as black as night,_

_She left her Keep, upon the dark_

_Turned west, without a fright_

_To camp, she came, her bosoms bare,_

_With word to tell one soul_

_He thanked her with a merry flare,_

_A cock and stones to hold_

_A bastard, as a gift, he left_

_The princess scorned and cold_

_So from Palestone, she threw herself_

_The princess, flame of Old_

The men begin stomping chain and boots to the beat and the coin-crier’s voice upswells with the melody, his own cheeks flushed with the attention.

His coinpurse hangs at his hip and Arthur stares at it now, already bulging with the days haul.

He must have run all the way here to beat the other boys in his profession. Free Companies are always starved of news outside of what their contractors deem it necessary for them to know.

The men let out a raucous cheer when the coin-crier mentions cock and stones and Arthur feels violently, suddenly, ill.

Palestone.

His name means nothing here but he knows that all of Westeros knows that Rhaenys has...given birth to his child.

His babe.

A babe he was never meant to have.

A babe that he may have never known he had at all.

Is it a little boy then, with Rhaenys’ bright eyes and soft curls?

Or does he look like that indomitable Targaryen blood of Arthur’s two lost kings?

He’s going to be ill.

Arthur’s vision swims violently before him and Lothston grabs him by the arm, guiding him behind the flaps of some tent, not Arthur’s own.

Arthur tumbles to the ground and lands halfway atop a pallet of some sort, Dawn’s hilt driven into his side.

Lothston grabs the sides of his face with callused hands.

“Gods. A man would think you’d seen the Stranger come to take your hand.”

Lothston’s family was long extinct from Harrenhal but Arthur assumes that someone raised him. Someone taught him of the Faith.

Arthur’s eyes focus and Lothston is looking down on him with something like pity.

Someone must have taught him about the Great Westerosi Houses, then, too.

“House Dayne,” Lothston says, musingly, Arthur’s last name a familiar refrain within the ranks.

“Song’s true, then? The Targaryen dragon-princess has gone and thrown herself into the sea?”

Arthur rises in one fluid motion, his hand come to strangle the life from Lothston’s throat.

“Neither you nor I deserve to speak her name. She’s dead now. She’s gone and the next man in this Company I hear speak of it will meet the end of my blade.”

Arthur feels as though he’s at the height of his youth, fire burning in his lungs.

Lothston is a big man and his toes skim the edge of the ground, both meaty hands tucked around Arthur’s fingers in an attempt to pry them loose. His red hair matches the apples of his cheeks and when Arthur releases him, it’s to a force greater than himself.

Lothston gasps for air, his hand coming up to massage his throat.

There’s something begrudgingly respectful in his face, even as he coughs violently.

“Aye, then,” Lothston rasps, turning to give Arthur one last look before he strides from the tent.

The crier has gone silent but Arthur can hear the strains of drunken sellswords attempting to match the beat.

The sound of the melody reverberates through Arthur’s skull, a constant refrain of death.

Have the gods not already ensured his suffering enough? He has already committed to dying in this barren land. 

Arthur reaches for Dawn, dragging her free of the clutch of his shirts.

Ah, well. Grief is a living, vibrant thing.

Arthur knows it well.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicide


	17. Chapter 17

Jon

302 AC

Jon arrives at Starfall two moons after the Maesters deliver Lord Edric Dayne’s scroll to the Red Keep.

The missive is signed in his hand but the contents are written by the Lady Ashara, presumably shortly after the incident.

_Your sister, the princess of House Targaryen, has cast herself from Palestone Sword at Starfall. We have yet to find her body._

_We here await your judgment as to what’s to be done with the child, a boy babe._

The court had talked for days.

Jon cares nothing for the gossip of lords and ladies but his small council had urged him to remain strong in the face of House Targaryen’s great losses.

And then there was Sansa.

Mid-way through the journey home, passing the rocky terrain of the Vale of Arryn, Sansa had grown wan and out-of-sorts.

The party had stopped countless times to let his bride out of her carriage so that she could be sick amongst the stones, and it was Lady Wylla who had finally taken pity on his anxious visage and told him the reason, her pale hands braiding Sansa’s red hair so that it could hang free of her face when she took ill.

“You’ve gotten the Queen with child,” Wylla whispered smartly, her words sharp but couched in gentle mirth.

“And I should think it about time, the way you two were sequestered in your rooms for a fortnight back at Winterfell,” she added quietly, and Jon had flushed with the memories of those evenings.

Sansa had looked up at him, surrounded by the gorse flowers that grow so plentifully in the Vale. 

Wylla rubbed absently at her back and Jon had reached for his wife, enveloping her shivering body in his arms.

“You’ve been very sick,” he murmured into her hair, feeling a bit shocked about the whole thing. Jon felt Sansa smile into the warmth of his chest.

“Aye. It’s as Wylla says. A little babe.” 

Sansa drew her head back just far enough to meet his eyes. Jon passed a thumb over the tears collected underneath her lashes and kissed her forehead, the corner of her mouth.

“ _Your_ babe,” Sansa whispered, just low enough for him to hear. Jon stiffened in his breeches at the tempting cadence of her voice, perfected through the many times she’d used it as he had fucked his bride by candlelight.

The journey home was difficult.

Sansa was ailing more oft than not and it became less endearing and more concerning as time wore on.

Jon was never so happy to see the back of the kingsroad as he was when entering the city gates.

They received the raven a week following their return.

Sansa lay in their marriage bed, safe in Maegor’s Holdfast, her hair spread about her face like a shroud.

She was beautiful. 

His Queen is lovely, and by some strange grace of the gods, she’s taken him as her husband.

There was no visible swell to her belly but Jon knows that by the time he returns to King’s Landing, at least four moons will have passed and she will be heavy with his babe.

Jon had sat down on the edge of their bed before he left and stroked a hand over her stomach regardless, pressing down a bit to where she was ticklish.

Sansa laughed once and then caught his fingers into her own.

“I want you to bring the babe home with you, Jon.”

Jon startled, his hand tightening round hers.

“He’s a Dayne by rights, Sansa,” Jon said. “He belongs to Starfall.”

Sansa sat up and Jon rose quickly in an effort to help her brace against the mountain of pillows he had imported from Essos.

“Stop it, stop it,” she laughed, batting at his hands.

“It’s not right that you should leave him there. Lady Dayne was never the same after Lord Aron died before little Ned’s eyes.” Sansa stumbled slightly over her father’s name, and Jon cannot seem to forget how much he loves her.

“His mother is a Connington. My own mother said she never faired well past Griffin’s Roost and Cape Wrath. The Dornish heat never agreed with her.” 

Sansa bit her pretty lower lip to distraction and Jon now knows well enough not to interrupt her when she’s thinking.

“If the boy was to stay, there’ll be war between the Daynes for the seat of Starfall come one day.” Sansa’s face scrunched up and Jon saw that she was struggling not to cry.

“The babe has the blood of kings in his veins. They’ll hate him for it. They’ll be frightened of him and he will never know peace. What’s a firstborn son without lands? Dawn is in Essos. They say it chooses. If it chooses Rhaenys’ son, there will be no peace at all.”

Jon nodded, closing his own eyes. He can’t think of Rhaenys now. He won’t be able to go on.

“You’re the King,” Sansa said stubbornly. “I want him here. They’ll respect him for his blood and won’t dare slander him in your house. You can give him lands when he’s of age, and a good wife.”

“I will, San,” Jon said in appeasement, kissing at her knuckles. “Try not to get so worked up about things while I’m gone, eh?”

Sansa rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“If I had known I would never see her again, I would’ve made a better goodbye,” Sansa said fitfully. 

“She hated herself at the end. I didn’t see--because I didn’t know. You have to do this for me, Jon. You know what it’s like to not have a mother.”

Sansa swiped at her tears in frustration, curling both hands around Jon’s rough palm. 

“I want you to swear on the Seven.”

Jon found no problem with the arrangement but he can see how agitated Sansa became at the thought of the child being left to fend for himself.

“On the Seven, I swear it. Please, sweetling,” Jon cajoles, “rest, for me.”

Sansa was still fidgety when he left her rooms and he made sure that her ladies were available on her command.

And so Jon arrives at Starfall with little fanfare.

He has a large retinue of men-at-arms accompanying him, never to be caught unaware as father once was.

The last time he was in the Red Mountains he was being born, Jon thinks, dismounting as he meets Lady Ashara at the wide mouth of the Keep’s gates.

Starfall holds the same milky undertone as the fallen star that created Dawn and Jon wonders of the magic of this place.

Lady Ashara’s face is pale and she stands before him, incessantly winding a silk kerchief through her hands.

“Your Grace,” she says, dropping to a low curtsy.

Jon swings his cloak from his shoulders and passes it to Pyle, who nearly stumbles under its weight.

“Lady Selmy, please,” Jon murmurs, reaching for her hand to help her rise.

Lady Ashara sways momentarily and then seems to regain some of the steel in her spine that so characterized her brother.

They look just alike, Jon thinks, pained. They have the same violet eyes, a deeper purple than that of Old Valyria.

Jon can see how self-contained she is. Arthur taught him that, too.

“Lord Ned has had Starfall’s men searching for the princess’ body, Your Grace. He even called upon the knights at High Hermitage.”

Jon winces, taking her arm to walk the path toward the winding pale turrets of the castle. The stones are sun-bleached and at their foundations, perennially dusted with red sand.

Lady Ashara leads, as this was once her home.

“The babe was inconsolable. Now, he latches to his wet nurse and we’ve swaddled him in some things that smell of his mother.”

Jon pauses, his throat tight.

Lady Ashara seems to know without words exchanged between them, and she pats his arm consolingly, firmly pulling him onwards.

They pass a high tower several leagues from the main castle. It hangs almost into the edge of the Summer Sea, built upon a mass of jagged rocks.

Jon stares, transfixed. Arthur had once lived here. This is where his father had passed him all the lessons on swordplay that Arthur in turn had taught to Jon.

This is where Arthur learned to navigate the Prince’s Pass and the Boneway. Where he’d traveled to Hellholt and Sunspear, the seat of House Martell.

This is the Palestone Sword, where the remainder of Jon’s House jumped to her death.

Ashara looks at him pityingly. Jon supposes that she has already learned how to grieve.

Jon can never seem to catch up. It seems as though his life is one interminable exercise in loss. 

He pushes thoughts of Sansa from his mind. He would never survive that. He’s barely able to tolerate this. 

His sister.

The last Targaryen outside of Uncle Viserys and his brood. There were supposed to be many more.

They come to a set of doors set deep in the back of the keep, situated close to the sea. Jon imagines that you could see the rush of crisp water from a window.

There’s a soft sound of gurgling emanating from within, followed by the sound of a woman humming softly in an attempt to quell the noise.

Jon takes a deep, shuddering breath.

Lady Ashara lays a hand on his arm.

“I’ll go in with you. I daresay you haven’t had much experience with newborn babes, Your Grace,” she says teasingly, and Jon manages to dredge up something resembling a smile.

Lady Ashara raps smartly at the door and then pushes it wide.

They are in an outer room of sorts, not unlike a lady’s solar. There is only one window in the corner and the room is kept mostly shrouded in darkness.

The wet-nurse sits in a cream-colored rocking chair, pushing it back and forth with one leg tucked beneath her. 

The woman adjusts her tunic without looking away from the babe’s face, humming all the while.

It’s a familiar tune, but one Jon’s having trouble placing.

“Wylla,” Lady Ashara says softly, and Wylla looks up, her gaze landing immediately on Jon’s face.

“Your--Your Grace,” Wylla fumbles, and Lady Ashara holds out her arms for the child.

The wet-nurse passes him over with a soft look on her aged features and shyly tucks brown hair behind an ear.

She bobs a surprisingly well-done curtsy and Jon smiles at her with honest appreciation.

“Thank you for watching over my nephew,” Jon says, and the woman colors and hurries out of the room before Jon can say anything further.

Lady Ashara makes clucking sounds under her breath as she rocks the babe in her arms, and Jon watches from behind her back as a tiny fist reaches up to clutch at an exposed curl.

“You’re a beautiful little boy,” Lady Ashara coos, and the babe slaps at her cheek, gurgling in delight.

He’s swaddled in Dayne purple and white and Jon is suddenly shivering.

“Would you like to hold him?”

Jon makes a sputtering sound that Ashara takes as an affirmative because she’s turning and depositing the child into Jon’s automatically outstretched arms.

Jon doesn’t realize that he has reflexively shut his eyes until he feels a gummy fist connect to the thick hair of his beard.

He opens them at the sensation and instantaneously wishes he never had.

Jon can feel the blood draining from his face and he stumbles backward before the babe’s cry of surprise keeps him upright.

“That’s how your sister reacted when she first saw him,” Ashara says quietly, and Jon _understands._

The babe in his face holds all the Targaryen coloring Rhaenys never had. 

He looks like their brother reborn, down to the soft slope of his nose.

His hair silvered and curled, eyes bright like lavender under the sun.

It’s a cruelty unmatched.

Jon’s throat is dry.

“What did she name him?”

The silence in the room is charged, and Rhaenys’ babe gets a strong grip on Jon’s hair and tugs, knocking his crown askew.

“Aegon.”

*

Jon wants Aegon nearby. 

The babe appears uncommonly quiet when not stimulated, almost silently slapping at his bedding with spit-wet hands while squirming in his cradle.

Aegon has only made a few sharp sounds as Jon sits at Rhaenys’ desk and holds the scroll addressed to himself.

The other two, for Arthur and Aegon respectively, will remain untouched until each addressee can reveal their contents.

Jon picks at the wax carefully, his thumbnail sliding under the seal.

He and Egg had always made a game of who could peel while keeping the dragon-head intact.

Jon usually won. He was the more patient of the two.

The seal comes off in his palm and Jon takes a deep breath as he unrolls the parchment.

_Brother._

_You once told me that you could never forgive me. It’s best that you now know that I have never forgiven myself. There’s to be no absolution for me._

_And then when he was born and I looked down upon him, I saw how just and cruel the gods are in equal measure._

_By now, you’ve seen his sweet face. How is that the gods could ensure that my own babe, the last person to ever love me, could look like the one I harmed most grievously?_

_You can tell him whatever you wish about his mother. I only ask that he always know how much I loved him. I’m weighed down by the burden of my own failures._

_He is my greatest and only achievement._

_It’s because of this that I cannot do him the disservice of watching him grow while loving him. That I cannot look upon his familiar face as a kinslayer and claim his love for a mother. The torture of my seeing and knowing would ruin him. He deserved so much better than me._

_They will find me selfish. They will find me ill-suited for human compassion. Give Aegon his own scroll when you think him old enough to withstand the contents._

_I love you, Jon._

_I expect to be in death, as in life, a disappointment._

Jon crumples the edge of the scroll in his fist and immediately smooths it down with trembling fingers.

He looks at the babe again. His lashes are fair against pink cheeks and he looks to be almost sleeping, a small hand pressed to his face. 

Jon can barely see Aegon through the sheen of wetness in his gaze.

Aegon looks like Egg when Jon and he were young, day versus night. It’s too painful to bear by half. 

This was the price, then.

Jon stands swiftly, catching his chair before it scrapes loudly against the floor and wakes the child.

He leans down against the desk, fists knuckled near the inkpot to better bear his weight.

Jon abruptly rises to his full height and sweeps the scrolls into his hand. He strides from Rhaenys’ rooms in search of a servant to locate Aegon’s wet-nurse. She’ll be coming back with them.

*

Jon keeps Wylla and Aegon in his carriage, a pretense heretofore unheard of, according to his men.

Lady Ashara appeared relieved that she would not have to travel back to Harvest Hall and be forced to leave the child alone at Starfall and in the care of a wet-nurse and an ailing Lady Dayne.

It would be some years before Lord Ned took a wife and made children himself.

Aegon grew fussy once the carriage began to rock over rough terrain and he refuses to latch even as the wet-nurse angles her teat to his crying mouth.

Wylla seems worried that the cries will eventually drive Jon mad, but Jon opens his arms when he can no longer bear the sight of Aegon’s red, swinging fists.

“Let me try,” Jon says loudly, to be heard over the noise.

Wylla passes the babe to him, Aegon’s arms and legs free from any swaddling due to the Dornish heat.

Aegon’s bright hair is stuck to his forehead and Jon allows his heavy weight to settle, rocking him back and forth the way he saw the nursemaids do at court.

Aegon hiccoughs in his ear and Jon can’t help but laugh wetly, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

Wylla hides a smile behind her hand and Jon carefully places a hand under Aegon’s bottom, hitching the babe further up onto his shoulder.

He imagines this will be what it’s like to have a child of his own. 

Jon wonders how he could come to love someone so strongly in so short a time.

The sway of the journey lulls Aegon to sleep.

*

King Jon Targaryen, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, reaches King’s Landing with three scrolls and a babe bearing his dead brother’s face.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> milkteeth (n.) any set of early temporary (or deciduous) teeth in children. These teeth are unsustainable and fall out as the young grow older to make room for the permanent teeth that characterize adulthood.

**Author's Note:**

> [greetings](https://brosamigos.tumblr.com/)


End file.
